The Vong War
by WesUAH
Summary: From the Aurora Force Kids story list. My portion of the AF's involvement the Vong War. This story will likely read disjointedly this is due to the nature of only getting a part of a storybymail, and cannot be helped. Still, do enjoy.
1. A Restrospective Prelude

_When Chief of State Ponc Gavrisom signed the peace treaty with the Imperial Remnant, we all believed that the spectre of galaxy-spanning war was forever dead and gone. If the New Republic, and the Empire, could make peace after more than a decade of bitter, all-or-nothing-to-the-death combat, we believed, then how could any other war ever hope to engulf the galaxy?_

_Yet we prepared for it. We were a small, independent system surrounded by territory of the third-largest government the galaxy had ever known, and the General believed in being prepared. He would often say that "someone is always trying to start something, and you never really known who that someone is until the shooting starts." Even the treaty between the Republic and Empire could be broken, be it by a warmongering faction in the Senate (the sort of politicians that he would describe as "raised on bad holovids and never had to write a letter to someone else's sweetheart"), the Empire itself, or some malingering third party._

_When asked how such a war could involve us, he would simply look the person in the eye and ask if the Golgan system was still gravitically anchored to the rest of the galaxy. When the person (assuming they understood the question) answered in the affirmative, he would just no and say "that's why it would involve us."_

_He always, I think, had an inkling that something was going to happen. Even as we honed ourselves in operations against pirates, slavers, and the occasional Imperial who didn't want to get in line with Pellaeon, he made his own plans, acting on a hunch and a drive that he could neither account for nor ignore. But even as he readied the Reserve Fleet, and even as he made sure our connection with the Aurora Force and the Kartuiin Sector government was secure, I don't think that even General DeLong really believed that a galaxy-wide war was coming._

_We all believed that we would never see such a horror again._

_Then the Vong came, and all that we believed turned to shadows and dust._

_The General foresaw something; even without his ring the Force seemed to act on him, touching him and guiding him even if he could not touch it back. Yet, even now, looking back, I don't believe that even he saw what was coming._

_No, I know he didn't see the whole of what the Vong invasion would bring; if he had, then there are so many things that he would have done differently, so many deaths and changes of fortune that he would have sold his very soul to prevent. Some say, in the ways he chose to fight, that he did sell his soul. I don't know about that._

_I do know that his preparations let us pull off our own little miracle._

_---_

_What else can I say about the Vong war? They came on us like a storm, a great shadow born upon beasts out of nightmares. They came in upon their vector prime, an onslaught that nearly brought us to ruin. For a time we fought over whether or not we should fight (as if the Vong left us any choice), and when we weren't doing that, we were throwing them the Jedi as an appeasement, hoping that Sguaru and Tu-scart would eat us last._

_For the Vong would eat us all in the end. No matter what Tsavong Lah said at Duro, we all knew that the death or enslavement of all the native races of the galaxy was their strategy of conquest. We sat upon the worlds that they wanted, that their gods had given to them, and as such we had to go._

_And meanwhile, as the galaxy argued over whether or not to fight, who should fight, who should lead the fight, whose fault it was that we were fighting in the first place, and which sector would get the lucrative defense contracts, the Vong cut a path of destruction from Belkadan to Coruscant and beyond._

_But the day came when the new Alliance re-took Coruscant, and we finally awoke from the nightmare. Shimrra was dead. The Vong were defeated and broken. And as the battered remnants of our fleet left Coruscant behind and returned home, we realized something._

_That beyond hope, beyond the fire and the flame, by strength of arms, by acquiescence, by chance, by providence, by the Force, by luck, by will, by helplessness, by courage, by cowardice, by mercy, by cruelty, by some special miracle, we had done it._

_We had won again our right to live._

_But what a price we paid._

_-_from the memoirs of Aral Contassia.


	2. Anniversary

"Unidentified ship, Xenen Control. Please identify yourself, over."

The man at the controls chuckled to himself. They knew exactly who he was, but Control insisted on going through the exact same dance each year, for nearly fifteen years on end. It was a joke, of course; if there was any ship that the controllers on Wayfarer would recognize, then it was his.

Even the new crop, if they bothered to study the unit's history.

"Xenen Control, this is the Peregrine's Claw, respectfully requesting permisison to enter Shay Memorial airspace and land, over."

"Copy that request, Claw. Standby for transponder verifiction."

"Running a tight ship, Control?"

"Had a bit of excitement earlier, Claw," the controller responded conversationally. "A couple of pirates chased in a transport, and- ah, looks like you check out. Welcome back to Xenen, General, and you are cleared to land."

"Thanks, Control," General Carlos DeLong, GDFCO, replied. "Heading in."

---

It was still a beautiful view, Carlos reflected as he stood atop the mountain. That particular clearing, where he'd proposed to her, hadn't really changed much. The twin views of civilization and wilderness where still, uncluttered and unhindered by the great trees, and he couldn't stop himself from slowly turning around to catch both sides of the view.

Then he stopped, and knelt down upon the ground before the one part of the clearing that had changed: the single, simple headstone that stood there with its back to the wilderness and its face towards the base and the city.

As he'd done each year, on the anniversary of the day she'd died, Carlos DeLong had returned to Xenen to lay flowers upon his wife's grave.

He reached out first, though, and cleared away some moss, and a few rogue weeds, that were encroaching upon that ground and obscuring the words on the stone. The weeds he pulled out carefully, and set aside; their flowers were a gentle green color, and he decided that it would be best to replant them somewhere else in the clearing. They were beautiful, and she'd always loved beautiful things, the things that man could make no less than what existed in nature.

That, in part, had been why her will had specifically stated that she be interred within that clearing.

He smiled as he ran his fingers over the now-clear letters:

JANICE DELONG LIEUTENANT BELOVED

As per her homeworld's traditions, the dates of her birth and death weren't recorded upon the stone.

"I'm back," he began quietly. "Johnathan wanted to come, but he's out on a mission with the GDF Marines, chasing down some pirates. He sends his love, and says that the misses you.

"You'd be proud of him, Janice. The promotion board told me that there'll be First Lieutenant's bars waiting for him when he gets back from this mission. Don't worry, I didn't have anything to do with it; what's he's done, he's earned all on his own. The kid even kept the surname 'Playbird', just to make sure there wouldn't even be the hint of nepotism."

Carlos shook his head and laughed at the thought of his adopted son. Johnny had come a long way from the Imperial prison that he'd found him in.

"I'm still the same as last year, still running the GDF, and still missing you terribly. There's a sea-change coming in the galaxy, love. I don't know what it is, but even without the Force I can feel it, and I just wish that you were still here to see it.

"But maybe you do see it. Wouldn't surprise me if, right now, you're seeing it all a lot better than I am, especially not after what I saw when you... well, and along with what happened on the Insidious...

"I miss you. So much, you don't even know... I don't know if that'll ever stop. It hasn't yet, but..."

He shrugged, and blinked away a few tears. The sting, the ache he'd felt in those first days had mostly left him, but at times...

At times he was still there, holding her hand after the vision, watching her chest rise and fall, rise and fall, rise and fall...

Nevermore.

"But like I said on the Insidious, I've made my choice... and I'm continuing with that choice, until I see what the last chapter of this story is. After that...

"After that, I know that the last chapter will lead me back to you."

At that he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket (it was rather chilly atop that mountain), and pulled out two roses: one red, one blue. These he lay side by side at the foot of the headstone. Then he stood, folding his hands in front of him, and he remained there in silent meditation for a good, long while.

"I thought I'd find you here."

The quiet voice from the trail interrupted his wandering thoughts, but it didn't surprise him. Much like the clearance dance with Control, this had become a welcome part of his yearly pilgrimage back to Xenen.

"Hello, Robert."

Carlos turned and grinned as his older brother stepped into the clearing- alone, this time, and in civilian clothes, not his usual armor. Robert DeLong, as the Guardian representative to the Council, had elected to remain on Xenen after the victory at Kartuiin, and was currently raising his family on that world.

"Where's Talia?"

"She's watching the kids, teaching them some new tricks. The youngest just received his ring last month."

"The two of you are churing 'em out pretty quickly, Robert," Carlos remarked with a roguish grin, one that turned all the more evil when he saw his normally toughed-and-stoic brother blush. "Certainly a lot faster than Mom and Dad did."

"Yes, well, I didn't have a Sith Lord overthrowing the government and killing off the Jedi around the birth of my first-born, so Talia and I could concentrate on... other things. Anyway, speaking of Mom and Dad..."

"Just called 'em last week. According to Dad, they're still on Lynne, enjoying what he calls a "well-deserved retirement". Enjoying, that is, in the sense that they're attenting Lady Senator Emily Pynage's dinner parties, and attempting to keep His Lordship Ruddyr Aeliron out of too much trouble."

"You sure that last isn't the other way around?" Robert said with a light chuckle. Carlos was pleased to hear it, as he figured that meant his brother's old demons still weren't resurfacing. Force knew that he and Talia both had their share of them, but they seemed to be holding steady.

"Wouldn't surprise me, actually," Carlos replied with a laugh of his own, as he kept his ruminations to himself. "You and I both know that those two can't seem to stay out of trouble... must be where we get it from. Still... he also said that they're making progress in restoring the Library."

"Just now?"

"Well, that sector took a while to settle down, so they've only recently had a chance to do anything about it. He's not optimistic, but they might be able to get something out of it all..."

They carried on like that for a while longer, discussing their kids, their sister (who was now a full NR Space-navy Captain in her own right, as the CAG on a Star Destroyer), and several other common friends and family. In the end, Robert helped him replant the green weeds on the city-side of the clearing.

And when all was done, they both stood silently before her grave.

"You still come back here," Robert observed after a while

"So long as this world and I last, I still will."

He knelt once more, knowing that it was time, and once more he ran his fingers down the cool, smooth stone.

"'Till we meet again, love."

Then he stood, took one last look around, and started back down the trail. 


	3. Introit

He was known as Damien Korssetti, and he was one of the many pirates who had plagued the area around the Kartuiin sector in the years since the Gavrisom-Pellaeon truce. Pirate captain, rogue, many names and titles had been used to describe him over the years. Yet the single most common descriptor applied to Captain Korssetti was "that thrice-accursed male of dubious parentage". At least, that's what they called him in polite company. In company much more profane, the terms used always meant approximately the same, but they were far more colorful. For Captain Korssetti, in the end, wasn't just a pirate.

He was a slaver.

Which meant that a lot of people wanted his backside, deep fried, buffet-style on a silver platter, with a side of mashed potatoes. And the fact that one of his "cargo transports" managed to run afould of the Red Thunder and got itself captured with its database intact, meant that the Golgan Defense Force would claim the prime slice off of that worthless rump.

A fact which made 2nd Lieutenant Johnathan Playbird, GDF Marines, adopted son of Carlos DeLong, very, very happy. Not that there wasn't much else about the mission to be happy about: the Blue Thunder and the Quillboar (name given by the engineer who'd come up with the design) had rather thoroughly pounded Korssetti's fleet into submission. If a fleet disabled by ion fire (his father's touch on the op) could be described as having been pounded. Either way, it wasn't going anywhere anytime soon, most of the ships had been captured, and all that remained was for the GDF to board and confiscate Korssetti's flagship, the modified Star Galleon Lympy Rose.

Which was what Johnny was in the process of doing; in fact, his unit had been given the assignment of apprehending Korssetti himself, and that was a task which young Playbird set upon with relish.

He hated slavers.

"This the place, Gunny?" he asked as they drew to a halt outside a cabin door.

"I belive it to be so, Lieutenant, assuming the information Slaryn pulled off the computers is accurate," Gunnery Sergeant Darvin Occo replied. "Still, I suppose the... ornamentation is a dead giveaway."

"You mean it looks like a door that would belong to someone who would name his ship the Lympy Rose?"

"I reckon so, sir."

"Fair enough, Gunny. Slaryn, Pike, Cole, Freeman, you guys watch the corridor. Herclayn, Mortan, Vransich, you three are with me and the Gunny. Weapons free, but try to take Korssetti alive if you can."

Gunny Occo raised an eyebrow, and Johnny smiled back.

"I don't really care if he surives or not, Gunny, but I'd just as soon keep my self astronomically above his level, if at all possible. Not that shooting the waste of oxygen would change that much, but..."

"It the thought that counts, skipper."

"That it is, Gunny," Johnny replied as he entered the pilfered access code into the door lock. He and his men readied their weapons as they heard the computer whine in acceptance, and then, its woosh punctated by a strangely sustained set of grunts and squeals, the door slid open.

---

Carlos waited until the sounds of the com call had ended before he knocked on the door.

"Permission to step in, Admiral?"

"Permission granted, General," Indy replied with a grin. "As always."

"Thanks, Indy," Carlos replied, grinning back at her as he stepped fully into the room.

They hadn't seen each other in three years, as her duties as AFCO and his as GDFCO had kept their paths from crossing even during his annual visits to Xenen. He hadn't really changed much since then, she noticed. His hair was just a little bit lighter around the temples, and it looked like there was a bit more gray sprinkled throughout the rest of it... but there was still the same easy smile on his face that he'd always had.

Not that it didn't still show the same undercurrent of pain that had been so raw and fresh when he'd left Xenen all those years ago. She knew that he would carry it always, but it had faded into something that he could carry, something that showed only in his eyes.

She stepped up and out from behind her desk, and then the two old friends embraced.

"It's good to see you, Indy," he said after a long moment.

"You too, Carlos," she replied, stepping back a bit. "I heard you'd arrived on base, but I figured you would have come by a bit earlier..."

"Yes, well," Carlos replied with a fading smile, "I would have, but Robert and I stopped by Jaq's grave first. Ran into Tag there."

"Ah."

"She still isn't taking it well."

"I know. He... filled an important place for her, Carlos, and... I know what it's like to loose a father. She's lost two, now. And, I hate to say it... but I don't think your current sister-in-law is helping much."

"Talia hasn't-"

"No no no, she hasn't done anything wrong. In fact, she's just as dedicated a Guardian as you or Rachel ever were, and from what I've seen, she's turning out to be a pretty good mother. She's done everything right, but it's not what she's done... it's what her name was."

"I know, I know. But whatever her name was, she's not her brother, Indy."

"We know. It's not rational, but when there's that much grief involved-"

"-rationality doesn't really matter anymore," Carlos finished for her. "I know. Still, Jaq did say that he approved, just before... and I'd like to think that he would look down, see just who his oldest nephew married, and laugh his backside off."

"Think he does see?"

"I do."

She nodded. He'd never really told her what he'd seen when Janice had died, but she knew that he'd seen something, and that whatever it was had fully convinced him that sentient beings, even non-Jedi, had an immortal part.

"I hope so, Carlos. But did you come here to talk metaphysics of the soul?"

"Not unless you want to hear a disertation on how Conservation of Energy and Second Law considerations can affect such concerns," he said with something approaching his normal grin. "Word of warning, boss. Never get into philosophical conversations with engineers. It can be just as... esoteric as with some Jedi, but there's a lot more math involved."

"I keep that in mind," she answered wryly. "Are you staying for the rest of the summit?"

"Actually, yes. In fact I've got a bit of a surprise part in it coming up, oh, tommorrow, assuming the strike force holds to schedule..."

"Strike force?"

"Well, if it all works out, then the Blue Thunder should be jumping into Xenen space around 1030 local tomorrow, along with a Loronor Strike Cruiser that has an... experimental mod, as well as at least one, maybe more, prize ships."

She stared at him for a moment.

"Do my airspace controllers know about this?"

He froze.

"Ummm..." 


	4. The New Generation

The lacquered zinji needle missed his nose by twenty-three millimeters, and made a solid thunk as it lodged in the wooden frame. Carlos poked his head back through the door to his brother's residence, as the only reason the needle _had_ missed was because he'd yanked himself away from its path, and looked around for the offending assassin. He spotted the abashed wastrel standing at the far end of the kitchen, and as he stepped fully into the house he plucked the needle from the frame and glared at her severely.

"Sarah, I'm pretty sure your Mother's warned you about practicing with this things in the house..."

"Sorry, Uncle Carlos," the twelve year old said quietly, her cheeks flushing. "These are brand new, and I just got carried away... and Daddy's been wanting to replace that framing for awhile, so..."

She shrugged helplessly, and Carlos felt his severe expression melt into something a bit more bemused. Young Sarah DeLong (purple ring) had, thankfully, derived most of her looks from her mother, though she had her father's green-blue eyes and brown hair (shoulder-length). Which meant that, at age twelve, she was, to quote several of the old ladies in town, 'as cute as a button', whatever that meant.

"So you figured you'd give him an excuse," Carlos said with a grin as looked down at his brother's middle child. Only by five minutes, of course, as she and Matthew DeLong (white ring) were twins, though she made sure that he did not forget that five minutes. This didn't faze the 'younger' brother any, as like most people who were around Sarah DeLong, he found that he could not stay mad at her for more than two minutes.

Of course, he _did_ have a certain skill at retaliating in the span of those two minutes, usually with covert operations involving assorted species of bugs.

She was just a _bit_ girly, the sort who would insist that they are called _bunnies_, not, repeat _not_, rabbits.

"Well, yeah..." she said, shrugging again and turning even redder, and Carlos finally took pity on her.

"Well, I suppose there's no harm done... it's not like you actually _hit_ my nose, or anything..."

His tone softened the remark to something a bit more teasing than remonstrative, and she actually chuckled a bit. He shook his head with a grin, and turned to examine the hole in the door frame. The hole was straight and even with the centerline of the frame, given the angle she'd thrown it from. He raised an eyebrow in appreciation, ever more so than middlin' impressed.

Then he took a good look at the zinji needle and raised the other eyebrow.

"Where'd you say you got this from, honey?"

"I made it," she answered proudly. "Mamma showed me how, and we worked up a bunch of 'em yesterday. I was just fiddling with that one, and, well..."

She shrugged again.

"I see. Would you mind too terribly if I kept this one? It's _very_ well made, Sarah, and I'd like to have a least some souvenir of the time my niece almost gave me a nose piercing..."

She nodded that it was okay as she blushed again, as much from his compliments on her handiwork as from the verbal poke.

"And just what are you two conspiring about?" Talia DeLong (blue ring) said as she lightly stepped into the kitchen with a glowering Matthew in tow.

She'd found his bug supply.

Again.

"Sarah was just showing me her latest project," Carlos said, showing Talia the zinji needle and shooting his niece a surreptitious I-won't-tell-if-you-won't wink. Talia, for her part, took full notice of the brand-new needle-sized hole in the door frame, and decided that it might be best _not_ to ask. So instead she reached out and gave her brother-in-law a quick, but warm, hug.

"So what do you think of it?"

"I'd say she did a right fine job," Carlos answered, lifting his hand up and balancing the needle on one finger. "Balance is spot on, point's sharp, and I'll bet that it'll hit whatever she throws it at."

"One would hope," Talia answered so dryly that even Matthew, who was none to pleased with his mother, had to laugh.

"We were wondering where you'd gotten off to," she continued after a moment. "Robert got back about an hour ago, said he'd run into you outside the base."

"Yeah, I was busy getting myself settled back in," Carlos replied. "I should be in-system for the next few days, depending on how my part in this conference goes."

"You're staying on base? How'd you get a room?"

"Well, I would say that they offered it because I'm the commander of the closest allied fleet," Carlos said with a grin, "but actually, I finagled this one 'cause one of the folks on Indy's staff has developed a wee bit of taste for a Golgan wine. I keep him supplied with a case or two when I drop by, he works it out to where I have a room on base. But don't _tell_ anybody that."

"Bribery, huh?"

"Not at all, and I am shocked, shocked I say," he said with grin, "to hear you compare it to such. It is merely _bartering favors_."

"Which can't be told to anybody."

"Exactly," Carlos said, moving to lean easily against a counter. "Because, as we all know, MP's have no sense of humor."

Talia just shook her head.

"One of these days, Carlos, one of these days..."

"But it ain't that day yet."

"And thank goodness for that. How's Johnny doing?" Talia asked, changing the subject.

"He," Carlos began grandly, flickering a glance towards Matthew, who had perked up a bit at the mention of his older cousin, "is currently off on a mission."

"Really?" Matthew said, unable to hold the question back. He'd been struck by a major case of hero-worship for his older cousin, ever since he realized that Johnny was getting to haul off and fight pirates and slavers and do all sorts of cool stuff... and all _without_ the power of the Force.

Which, as far as he was concerned, made one Johnathan Playbird even cooler than sliced bread.

"Really," Carlos replied gravely. "If they hold to schedule he'll be arriving here sometime tomorrow morning, with a full-fledged slaver in tow."

Matthew crinkled his nose at that, as his parents had already explained to him exactly what slavers were. He didn't like them much.

"How bad will it be?" Talia asked quietly.

"It's Korsetti, Tal," he answered quietly. "The b- fellow traffics in _people_, and none too humanely. Never did care about upkeep, that one."

He shook his head to clear out the ghosts. He'd never actually _seen_ the inside of one of Korsetti's slave carriers, but he'd heard the rumors... and those had been enough to keep him from sleeping well, and combined with the stuff he _had_ seen...

He shook his head again.

"But anyway, they should have completed the raid about an hour ago, so _that's_ all over now.

"Which means, then," he said, returning the subject to the original reason for his visit, "that _we_ need to be worrying about getting ourselves over to a little BBQ. I'm hoping Robert told you about it?"

"He did indeed."

"Where _is_ Robert, anyway? And Cam as well?"

"Well, they're in the garage, fixing up some damage on the speeder. In fact," Talia said as the light whine of a functioning repulsor coil filled the house, "that sounds like they're done."

She let the way through the rest of the house and to the rear garage, where they beheld the sight of Robert DeLong (red ring, still), and Cameron DeLong (green ring), closing the last few access ports on the family speed and giving each other high-fives.

"Hey, Uncle Carlos," the thirteen year old Cameron called out when he spotted them. That was about as demonstrative as he got; not that he was a cold fellow, not by any stretch. He was just quiet, and not given to great displays of emotion. A few said that he possessed an evener keel than most _adults_, not to mention most thirteen year old males.

"Evenin', Cam," Carlos replied as he waved at his brother and studied the repairs. "What did y'all do to the speeder this time?"

"_This_ one," Robert answered, affixing his eldest son with an affectionate glare, "was out cruising with young Jaq Rendar the other day, and not only managed to nick two of the starboard repulsor coils on a rock, but some kind of rodent got sucked up in the air intake during self-same adventure."

"And if you think that's bad," Cameron offered, "you should've seen the rodent when it shot out the _back_."

"How far'd it fly?" Carlos asked dryly.

"'Bout five meters."

"Nice."

"Cool as the toasted, flying rodent may have been," Robert said, his stern voice made to waver by the fact that he _still_ found the whole situation to be very funny, "it _also_ scattered about half the intake along those same five meters. So _this_ time, son, _don't_ hit any small, furry animals."

"_This_ time?"

"Exactly," Robert said with a grin. "Call it a learning experience, just like fixing the speeder. Your mother and I need to discuss a few things with your uncle, so how about you show us that you _can_ drive this thing by taking us to Admiral Bridger's party?"

"Force help us," Sarah melodrama'd, burying her face in her hands, "we're all going to _die!_"

------

"So, about this Reserve Fleet you've been putting together..." Robert began once they got underway. Cameron was actually driving rather well, despite the fact that the twins were also up front with him, offering helpful suggestions and running commentary on the passing scenery.

"I've nearly enough tonnage for what I've got planned," Carlos answered. "Just a few more ships, and then..." he made a parting motion with his hands, and Robert and Talia both nodded.

"I still want to tweak you about it," Robert said lightly. "But I really can't."

"Not when you're part of the impetus behind it," Carlos agreed. "The way I see it, when my brother, along with his wife and several Jedi whose opinions I trust, start getting a bad feeling about something coming, then I should listen. Especially when that bad feeling jives a twitch or two that I've had ever since we rescued Mom and Dad, and especially since that one crazy guy murdered Alain. I don't know what's coming, but... it'll be bad. And if I gets as bad as I'm afraid it will, then I'll _need_ what I'm putting together in Reserve Fleet."


	5. The GDF

"Y'all are calling yourselves the _what_ now?"

"Colonel Herclayn, " Johnny repeated with a grin, "has decided to start calling the battalion the 'Hellwalkers', given how we're the ones who get sent in to clean up when we knock out a pirate or slaver."

He took a sip of his lemonade (he'd adopted Carlos' own beverage preferences), and shuddered at the memories. Not just of what they'd seen in the _Lympy Rose_, and the uncountable other pirate and slaver ships the battalion had taken down, but also from what little he remembered from his own childhood, as a slave in all but name. He took another sip and dragged his mind back to the present.

There were few others in the _Blue Thunder's _observation lounge; they'd long since left behind the magnificent view of Golgan VI's blue and white clouds, as well as the majority of the accompanying vessels, and the view outside just wasn't as exciting without them. He was glad for that, as well as for the order his dad had given, that the _Thunder_ would continue on to Golgan III in realspace, rather than make an in-system microjump. They hadn't had a lot of time to just sit and _talk_ lately, what with the on-going pirate hunts.

"But anyway," he continued with a toss of his head, "as far as the Colonel's concerned, that's as close to hell as we can get."

"That's because neither you nor Jaryn have ever seen real honest-to-the-boatman protracted infantry combat," Carlos replied. "But I won't argue the point," he continued, holding up a hand to stave off what Johnny _wanted_ to say in return. "It's Jaryn's battalion, and I gave him the free hand when we activated it. So if he wants to call y'all the 'Hellwalkers', and for that reason, then I ain't gonna stop him.

"And frankly, I'll be just as glad if pirates and slavers are the only bits of hell you ever see."

Johnny cocked his head at the odd note that found its way into his father's voice.

"But you don't think that'll happen, do you?"

Carlos turned to stare out the viewport, and took a long sip of lemonade from his own glass.

"Somebody's always trying to start something," he said at last. "And you rarely know who they'll be until the first shot is fired. The Galaxy looks to be shaping up pretty well now, even _if_ Fey'lya is the Republic's Chief of State... but one thing Jaq always tried to teach me was to be ready for anything. So even this current peace I'm not gonna take at face value."

"Somethings coming?"

"Somethings coming. Something out of history and future, something closer to us than we know," he intoned, his eyes unfocused and far away. "The ouroboros will-"

He stopped suddenly and eyed his lemonade suspiciously.

Johnny just looked at him somewhat askance and raised an eyebrow.

"You _sure_ that's just lemonade, Dad?"

"Well, I _was_ pretty sure," Carlos answered. "What was I just talking about?"

"I have no idea. You were starting to sound like grandpa when he tells a story. Something about an 'ouroboros', the snake that eats its own tail."

"Huh," Carlos said as he carefully set his glass aside. "That's... odd."

"Not to mention freaky and wrong," Johnny concluded. "So, to change the subject, did Intel get back with you about the data we captured?"

"That they did," Carlos replied, obviously relieved at the change of subject. "They were pretty impressed, too, with what your platoon pulled up."

"What can I say?" Johnny answered with a grin. "_Somebody_ was too busy getting it on with his first mate – and there's a gall who took her job description _way_ too literally – to bother dumping his data core. So once we'd pulled them both off the tac repeater and cuffed 'em, the Gunny had no trouble hacking the system and pulling out _everything_."

It was easily the greatest single intelligence windfall the GDF had ever had. For when Johnny said that they pulled _everything_ off of Damien Korsetti's computers, he meant it. They had names of ships, depots, middlemen, hunting grounds... and customers.

A very _long_ list of customers.

"I'm guessing," he continued, "that you also earmarked a copy of the customer's list to Carlotta?"

Carlos nodded in reply.

Carlotta (Lady Carlotta, Miss Carlotta, Ma'am, and various other titles depending on who was speaking) was the head courtesan in the Red District of Golgan III's capital city. Prostitution wasn't exactly illegal on Golgan III, but nor was it explicitly _legal_, either; in fact, the planetary laws didn't mention it at all: traditionally, the people of Golgan III had accepted that their nature as a port o'call and shipyard would make such things inevitable. But they didn't have to like it.

Which _used_ to mean that while the police wouldn't exactly go out of their way to arrest them, they also wouldn't go out of their way to _help_ if a problem or two showed up in the Red District.

That had changed ten years ago, when Carlos, then the GDFXO, had gotten lost during a nightwalk through the city, and wound up completely by chance in the Red District. He started to turn around and walk back out, but then he recognized one of the streets from an old map, and figured that he could get to where he was going quicker by cutting through the District than by backing out and retracing his steps.

That turned out to be a good choice on nearly everyone's part, as halfway through the District he heard emanating from an alleyway noises that didn't sound _at all_ consensual. A quick investigation of the alley confirmed his initial impressions of the situation, and he proceeded to deliver unto the non-paying john an epic whipping that the Red District _still_ remembered in story and song.

The prostitute in question turned to be Carlotta, an 'older' lady who was in the process of trying to organize the courtesans to where they could stand for themselves. One thing led to another and Carlos wound up getting an earful of exactly how little anyone cared about the goings on in the Red District.

_That_ triggered his White Knight Reflex, and by morning he and Carlotta had hammered out an agreement: in return for official protection and decent access to medical care (which, she had noted, would help to avoid certain unpleasant situations, such as, say, a Gotal STD suddenly mutating into a cross-species form, which would just plain suck), the courtesans of the Red District, under Carlotta, would serve as a somewhat unofficial branch of GDF Intelligence.

_If_ prostitution was to remain an inevitability of Golgan III, Carlos had reasoned, best to then work to control the worst abuses and consequences of the 'oldest trade', and to make it work to Golgan III's, and the GDF's, own advantage.

Vran Diesato had been... dubious about the arrangement, but he agreed to give it a 'test drive' period.

When intelligence provided by the courtesans allowed the GDF to nail five pirates, two slavers, about a half-dozen smugglers, _and_ aided certain Golgan merchant factors in securing favorable shipbuilding licenses from KDY and CEC, all in the space of three months, even Diesato, one of the few people more straight-laced than Carlos, was well and sold on the value of the arrangement.

"We haven't had a bad hit from them in ten years," Carlos said, "and don't forget that it was _their_ information that led us to Korsetti in the first place. If _anyone_ on that list, or someone working of them, has been by Golgan III, then I'll bet you credits to crullers that they stopped by the Red. And if so... then men say things when their drunk and 'happy'."

"Probable cause?"

"More like travel schedules. About half the names on that list I can't reach, due to various treaties. But with the right information, I can always set up an ambush."

Johnny nodded.

"Just of curiosity, Dad," he said a moment later, "did you by any chance recognize number fifty-seven on that list?"

"Yes," Carlos answered darkly. "Yes, I do believe I did. Fortunately, there are no treaties between me and him, so..."

Two weeks after the incident in the Red District, the owner of the medium-sized shipping line that the john-cum-rapist belonged to (tellingly, the fellow had _not_ had his employment terminated), had marched himself into Vran Diesato's office, _demanding_ restitution, and Carlotta's head, for the "unexcused beating" of his employee.

Vran handed him off to Carlos, and the shipping magnate repeated his demand and bluster in Carlos' office.

Carlos proceeded to explain to him the circumstances behind the beating.

To which the magnate had answered, in a tone which indicated that he had long known full well the circumstances, "_Pshaw! She was just a _whore_!"_

After Carlos administered his _second_ epic whipping in as many weeks, the magnate conceded that he _might_ just want to re-emphasize to his crews the need for behaving a gentlemanly fashion when on shore leave.

Even in the Red District.

The shipping magnate, by and by, was the fifty-seventh name on the list of Damien Korsetti's 'customers'.

"I think I'll enjoy that one. Yes, I think I'll enjoy that one quite a bit."

----

"Permission to come aboard, Captain?" Carlos said as he saluted the welcoming comitee, which just so happened to be his Chief of Staff. Unlike Johnny, who'd hopped a shuttle to the surface with the rest of of the battalion, he'd taken the _Claw_ over to his flagship. The visit to Xenen had left him need to confer with his staff, and the _Illuminator _was really the best place to do that.

Still and all, it was somewhat odd to be greeted by his Chief of Staff, Captain Aral Contassia, rather than by Captain Eric Corwin his ownself.

"Permission granted, General," Aral answered, returning the salute and then extending her hand in welcome. "Welcome back, sir."

"Good to see you again, Aral," Carlos replied as he shook her hand, which almost vanished inside of his own. Carlos was himself not exactly built like an AT-AT; yet compared to him, in fact compared to any objective measure, Aral Contassia, all 160 centimeters of her, was best described as 'just an itty-bitty little thing' and 'cute as a button'. Given that she was also a natural blond with large, green eyes which defaulted to a wide expression of perpetually innocent wonderment, she often made some folks look twice when they saw her in uniform.

But that was those who didn't know her, for Captain Aral Contassia was one of the four rising stars of the GDF.

At the long-ago battle of Kartuiin, the ISDII _Freedom's Fire_ had taken a double-broadside from the Super Star Destroyer _Insidious_. Miraculously, she had kept flying; however, the attack resulted in the death of Aryn Campbell, then the GDFXO, the majority of the bridge crew, and a majority of the ship's senior officers. Yet she, and her crew, had held together, and performed in an honorable if limited capacity, for the rest of the fight. That was due primarily to the actions of four individuals: Lieutenant Everett Kincaid, the sole surviving bridge officer; Lieutenant Tara d'Avignon, engineering, whose own star had begun to rise when she'd been assigned by General Diesato to design the upgrades for Derek Bel-Iblis' Star Destroyer; Lieutenant Junior Grade Eric Corwin, weapons control; and Lieutenant Junior Grade Aral Contassia, Damage Control Center.

Their careers took off after that. Now it was _Commodore_ Everett Kincaid, GDFXO; _Commodore_ Tara d'Avignon, WO&SCO (Weapons, Ordnance, and Ships), _Captain_ Eric Corwin, CO of the _Illuminator_ and Carlos' flag captain; and _Captain_ Aral Contassia, Chief of Staff to the General. There were many others on his command staff, but those four comprised the solid core that kept everything functioning smoothly.

"And you too, sir," she answered. "And you as well, Peregrine," she said to the ship.

"_Glad to be back, Captain Contassia_," Peregrine answered. "_Still up for our dejarik game this evening?_"

"Three moves, Peregrine. Then I have you."

"_I quake in fear, Aral_," Peregrine answered with a chuckle.

"He's not kidding about that," Carlos interjected with a smile; if there was one thing he wholeheartedly approved of in his Chief of Staff, it was how well she treated Peregrine. "He was worrying about the game the whole way back from Xenen."

Peregrine let out a good approximation of a scandalized harrumph. Carlos just patted the ship, said farewell, and turned and headed towards a lift.

"Still and all, and not that I'm complaining about the welcoming committee," he continued, getting the conversation back on track, "but just where exactly is my flag captain?"

"Well," Aral said as she fell into step behind him, her voice sounding somewhat embarrassed, "Eric sends his apologies, sir, but T - Commodore d'Avignon - specifically requested his assistance on the _Holland Novak_, for the workup trials at P2X-457."

Carlos nodded in understanding. P2X-457 was another one of those systems that no one had ever gotten around to naming, as all it had in it were a bunch of rocky planetoids that were long since mined out. The GDF had acquired the system on the cheap six years ago; long-abandoned lumps of rock, once confirmed that they _weren't_ home to a Nam Chorios style networked siliacoid, made excellent live-fire ranges.

"Well, I'm certain she's putting him to good use," Carlos said dryly.

"I... believe you could say that, sir," Aral answered so demurely that Carlos had to laugh. The GDF, for good or ill, had long since adopted the AF's _laissez faire _approach towards fraternization, and the 'partnership' of Eric Corwin and Tara d'Avignon was easily the most famous product of that adoption.

Everyone _knew_ exactly what they were doing, just as everyone also _knew_ that they made a very, very good team for something like the RKV project. When it came to weapons, they made an effective one-two punch where Tara and her engineers would figure out how to make the thing work, while Eric would game out how Carlos could use the it to make enemies die.

So everyone made subtle jokes about 'after-hours consultation sessions' and listened _very_ carefully to what either of them had to say.

"Speaking of that," Carlos said, "I noticed on my way in a couple of new construction slips, both of which contained objects that looked suspiciously like the _Novak's _accelerator rails."

"I believe you saw correctly, sir," Aral replied with a forming grin.

"And there looked be a few construction teams crawling all over them."

"Yes, sir." The grin grew wider.

"I'm guessing Tara's sent in a report from the field test."

Aral, with a grin that could have swallowed the _Illuminator_ itself, handed him a datapad. Carlos took one look at the numbers and stopped cold.

"It knocked off _that_ much mass?"

"Yes sir, I do believe it did. Tara sent video."

"But that's... that's..."

He finally started moving again.

"Three-quarters the mass of a Super Star Destroyer, yes sir. Eric sent that he _thinks_ he can ensure these things will never ever hit an inhabited planet, but he wants to game it on the computer a bit more."

"I can understand why," Carlos breathed. Then he started laughing, and continued laughing all the way to the lift.

"Sir?"

"Sorry, Aral," he answered, getting control of himself. "I was just thinking what the reaction on Coruscant would be if word gets out that we have working relativistic kill vehicle... and are building two more."

A brief giggle fit struck Aral, one which lasted even as she followed her general into the lift.

"I'm sure Ambassador Rossech would love that, sir," she answered once she had control of herself.

"Yes, that would make things a bit more interesting for Sarah, wouldn't it?" Carlos mused evilly. "But given what she as to deal with in keeping Fey'lya out of our business, we'd best not make it any harder on her than we have to."

"I'll make a note of it, sir," Aral answered, even going to the trouble of jotting something down on her datapad. Carlos chuckled as he entered their destination into the lift's controls.

"So with that settled," he said, once the lift started moving, "what else is new?"

"Well, sir," Aral said, holding up her datapad and getting right down to business, "with the recent 'acquisition' of the _Lympy Rose_ and the associated slaver fleet, Reserve Fleet has exceeded the tonnage you specified. It's been suggested, given the build-in margin of error, that we could release some of the excess to our merchant factors, which would allow..."

She continued on as the lift took them away from the hangar bay, the two of them set about the fleet's business.

And, for a time, all was right with the world.


	6. Pellman's Legacy

_'This,'_ thirteen year-old Cameron DeLong thought as he hung upside down from a tree, _'was _not_ one of my best ideas.'_

He didn't even bother trying to go for the rope attached to his right leg; the way this particular trap had caught him left the knot stuck right behind his ankle, where he really couldn't reach it. Admittedly, he could have used the Force to untie the knot and lower himself to ground... but he wanted to stay put and stew a bit longer.

Besides, his ring had fallen off.

A bit inconvenient, that.

But what was worse was the snicker coming from the bushes behind him. Which led him to believe that the faint trail which he'd so _brilliantly_ sniffed out and followed had been left with malicious aforethought.

Which meant that the person snickering, one Jaq Losoda, was even more of a sneaky bastard than he'd originally thought.

Far, _far_ too much like his late namesake.

"Okay, Jaq," he called out as best able (dangling upside down does not do wonders for one's diction, especially when annoyed). "You win."

The other boy laughed out loud as he finally stepped around Cameron and into his field of vision. He greatly favored his mother, though with straight brown eyes rather than her heterochromia. At that very moment those same eyes seemed to twinkle with sort of mischievous glee.

The two of them would often head out from the civilized parts of Xenen and spend a week or so in the local forests. They would haul in a few supplies, but would survive mostly on what they would trap or hunt themselves. Since the forests was home to _plenty_ of small game and quite a few streams, this wasn't much of a problem. In fact, in between shooting the bull, lightsaber training, and talking about girls (easily the single most important portion of their excursions, as any thirteen year-old male can attest), they would often contest with each other to see which could set the best squirrel trap.

Jaq had a tendency to win. Even, as just demonstrated, when the game involved was Cameron DeLong.

"Cam, Cam, Cam," Jaq said tsk-ingly. "Spending the day in E&E while hunting each other _was _your idea, remember?"

"Yes, and I dutifully regret having thought it up."

"Ah, you're just sore 'cause you lost. But hey, could you show me your trap later? I want to see what you did."

"Sure," Cameron said, entirely cognizant of the fact that he was _still_ dangling upside down. "I'm surprised you haven't seen it yet. It's only a few meters that way."

He gestured in vague westerly direction.

"Well, see," Jaq said, somewhat abashed. "I haven't really moved from this spot..."

"What?"

"All I did was set this trap and spike the trail," he explained. "After that... well, if your prey is a predator..."

"...then he'll act like one. Cute. You've been paying too much attention to my uncle, I think."

"Actually that bit came from my mother. Who got it from the same place your uncle did, I believe."

"Wonderful. Could you cut me down now?"

"Uh, sure," Jaq said, drawing his lightsaber. "Sorry about that."

"You're not sorry. You're far to happy about having won by base treachery."

"Well," Jaq replied with a cheerful grin, as he cut the rope and watched Cameron fall to the ground, "it's like that _other_ saying, the one your uncle keeps harping on..."

---

_'If you aren't cheating,'_ Eric Corwin mused balefully, as he stared at his sabaac cards and woefully small pile of chips, _'then you're doing something wrong. So I guess I'm doing something wrong.'_

It wasn't that he was a bad cheater; in fact, he'd developed a rather devious streak, in the tactical and strategic sense. The problem was that there was _always_ a better cheater. In this case, the better cheater, to judge by the chip piles, was Everett Kincaid.

And still the Old Sourpuss (as Eric thought of him) didn't crack a smile. Didn't react or say much at all, except the barest amount necessary. The closest he'd come to not looking dour and cross was the faint look of approval that crossed his face when Aral Contassia put on the canned bagpipes as background music.

Apparently the Little Rabbit (as Eric thought of her) was attempting to learn the 'pipes.

Bagpipes themselves weren't a native invention to Golgan III. Rather, one of their engineers had heard a demonstration of the... instrument... at an off-world convention, had strangely decided that their horrid caterwauling was the coolest thing he'd ever heard, and wound up bringing the 'pipes back to Golgan III with him. Long story short, the bloody things had caught on like a 70 efficiency increase in shield generators.

Everett Kincaid, Aral Contassia, _and_, horror of horrors, Tara d'Avignon (Eric's nickname for _her_ will forever remain confidential), had each developed a bit of a taste for the strange instrument. Eric never did, and so far as he was concerned, never would. It sounded far too much like someone taking a cat and sticking in an ancient food processor, while simultaneously-

The muttered, but inventive, invective from Tara cut off his musings, and he forced himself not to grin in amusement, settling for tiny and well-hidden smile instead. He wasn't sure if she was irritated more by her current hand or by the apparent inapplicability of her cheat cards. He suspected a combination of both.

But such was the way of things at their weekly sabaac game, where the only rule was "don't get caught."

They considered good practice, given the General's "warfare is deception" philosophy. Not that he de-valued honesty, honor, fair-play, and chivalry; in fact, he expected _all_ his officers to demonstrate those virtues in their dealings with their men, and in their own affairs.

But as for combat... he wanted them to cheat. He expected them to dig up every single _effective_ little dirty trick, advantage of terrain, advantage of numbers, distraction, and miss-direction possible. For, he would often say, a battle is won before it begins, by the commander who can harness the most strategic factors.

Hence the Q-ships, modified bulk freighters that carried turbolasers, ion cannons, and warhead tubes rather than cargo.

Hence the alliance with Carlotta and the Courtesan's Guild.

Hence the RKVs.

Hence a sabaac game where everyone cheats.

Eric shook his head and glanced at his cards again. He might in third place, after Everett and Tara, but at least he was doing better than poor Aral, whose chip pile was barely a quarter the size of his own. She was losing about as badly as the _rest_ of them did whenever the General joined in on the game. Carlos DeLong was downright _evil_ when it came to cheating at cards, or any sort of game for that matter, and he would routinely clean them out-

-about as badly as Aral proceeded to do over the next five hands.

Eric stared at her in shock as gaily hummed along to the 'pipes and gathered up her chips. Everett looked at her, raised an eyebrow, and then a fleeting ghost of a smile crossed his lips.

Eric very nearly fell over at that, at it was one of maybe two times he'd seen Old Sourpuss smile, _ever_, but it such a fleeting thing that he wondered if he'd imagined it.

Tara, for her part, simply blurted out "How in the _hell_ did you do that?"

"You know, just bided my time," Aral replied as she scooped up the last of the chips. "Then Eric made that bluff a few hands ago, and I saw the chance to spring my trap!"

"Just like frelling that, huh?"

"What is it that the CO says?" Everett rumbled, in only his third polysyllabic pronouncement of the night.

---

_'There's no art quite so exquisite,' _Carlos thought happily as he sipped his drink, _'as a successful trap.'_

He'd expected a bit more difficulty on his present mission, given who he was after. Money talks, and can purchase away even justice, something that he wouldn't put past this particular shipping magnate. He hadn't expected the local authorities to cooperate, at least not once said magnate got wind of it and started throwing around credits, so he'd made plans of his own even as he consulted with the local constabulary.

He needn't have bothered. The constable turned out to be a right honorable sort; even though he shared Carlos' good-natured aversion to fair play in all things tactical, he comported himself well and evenly in all his dealings, with ne'er a bribe crossing his hands. He was justifiably horrified by the information that Carlos brought him, and once he'd moved past the initial disbelief, he announced it no uncertain terms that it was time "to deleted nail that expurgated bastard."

Seeing the name of a local businessman mentioned in the ledger of a confirmed slaver, along side the words "quantity purchased" and "catamite", will tend to provoke that reaction in a man. A _decent_ one, at least.

And so Carlos found himself in a fancy restaurant, eating fancy food and drinking fancy local-equivalent-to-lemonade, and watching as an undercover cop moved up to the shipping magnate.

Watched as the cop engaged the magnate in conversation.

Watched as the conversation turned to personnel costs for galaxy-wide shipping lines.

Watched as the shipping magnate explained, in hushed tones and innuendo, his "cost-cutting measures", and some of the side-benefits thereof, wink wink, nudge nudge.

Watched as the undercover cop stood up, flashed his badge, read the magnate his rights and charges (very loudly, in fact), and then hauled the critter out of the restaurant.

A trap well laid.

"Here's to you, Uncle Jaq," Carlos whispered, raising his glass high as the babble of background conversation started up again. "You trained us well."


	7. Es kommt

_A/N: Just on the off-chance, Star Wars and the New Jedi Order belong to LucasFilm. The original characters in these posts belong to either myself or to their respective creators. I am uploading these posts primarily for my own benefit, so as to keep track of my role in this story. If anyone else out there is reading this, I hope you enjoy it._

* * *

"Sir?" Captain Aral Contassia asked as she stuck her head through Carlos' office door. "A moment, please?"

"C'mon in, Aral," Carlos answered. "Whatever you've got for me, I'm sure it'll beat this paperwork."

He gestured at the stack of datapads on his desk.

"They still haven't fixed your computer?"

"Not yet," he sighed. "A world full of engineers, and I can't get a computer fixed. But so long as they're busy correcting that little glitch in _Red Thunder's_ fire control system, I'll live with it. So what do you have?"

"Message from your brother, sir," she said, passing him a datapad. He took and read it.

"Ah, good. He remembered to bring the card with him."

"Card, sir?"

"An old friend's birthday, Aral," he answered. "Word got to me about Trevvik Wyler's little 'ambush' on his brother while I was on Xenen, and since I couldn't be there today, I left a card for Robert to bring. Give that Mark Wyler and the _Raven_ saved my butt at least once," he continued with a grin, "I figured it was only polite."

"Of course," Aral replied dryly.

"Anything else come down the pipe?" he asked, with a strangely hopeful tone in his voice.

"Nothing besides that, sir," she replied. "Anything in particular you were looking for?"

"Well... no. Nothing, really," he said, his tone suddenly neutral again. "Just... just looking for more distractions from the paperwork, that's all."

She cocked her head and stared at him for a long moment. Carlos started to fidget.

"Sir, permission to speak frankly?"

"Go ahead..." he affirmed warily.

"Spit it out, sir."

"I beg your pardon, Captain?"

"Sir," she continued doggedly, now standing at parade rest and staring at a point five centimeters above his head, "you were hoping for a letter from your sister."

He sighed, sat back in his chair, and rubbed his forehead.

"I don't remember you being this pointed, Aral."

"I have my moments," she replied. "That is what you were looking for, isn't it?"

"Yeah," he answered quietly, and turned to look out the window at the green and blue planet beneath. His office was one of the more scenic quarters on the _Illuminator_, by request. "Yes, it was."

"How long has it been?" she asked quietly.

"Two years, Aral," he replied with another sigh. "I don't ever remember what we argued about."

He shook his head and turned back to her.

"But until she writes back, I can't really do much about it," he continued, signaling the subject as closed, "except keep on writing to _her_ like the stubborn idiot I am. Even if she tells me to shut up and leave her alone, that'll beat the empty silence."

* * *

_'Not a bad ambush,'_ Robert thought cheerfully as he sipped his drink and watched the crowd. He wasn't much of a socializer; in fact, he was still a bit of a wallflower, even now. So he sat back, laughed and interjected as needed, and let his wife and kids (fortunately, all three of them took after Talia in the "social graces" department) do most of the talking. As far as he was concerned, it was shaping up to be a pretty good party. 

He'd even remembered the card from Carlos... and the one from Rachel. He'd mentioned the party in his last letter to her, and she'd taken it upon her self to send a Happy Birthday Card by way of Robert DeLong, who often wondered what his siblings would have done if one of them _hadn't_ stayed on Xenen.

Now if only he could get _them_ talking again.

He shook his head. An introvert having to play family peacemaker, or at least go-between.

What was the galaxy coming to?

* * *

And light years away, on a world called Belkadan, an infiltrator locked his sensor dish on Sector L30, and waited. 

He would not wait for long.


	8. Pellman's Legacy II

The morning after Mark Wyler's surprise birthday party, Cameron DeLong went looking for his friend. Jaq had bowed out of the party a little early, and had looked a little green around the gills as he did so.

He found him sitting in the shade of at tree, lost in thought.

"You skipped out just a bit early, man," Cam said lightly as he walked up and plopped down next to him. "The part was just getting good."

"How can it be a good party if we can't drink the champagne?" Jaq grumped in reply.

"My Dad's had champagne; he says it's overrated. Seriously, Jaq. What's wrong?"

Jaq remained silent for a long time; then he sighed and looked towards his friend.

"I had another flash, Cam," he said quietly.

"That's the third one this month! What happened this time?"

"It...," he broke off for a second. "Ah, if I can't tell you... It was a party, like Mr. Wyler's. 'Cept we weren't here on Xenen, we were... I can't tell you what planet it was. But it was just Mom and me... and a bunch of Imperial bigwigs. We... we were there to convince the planet to join the Rebellion. We'd already set the groundwork for a popular uprising, and had convinced the garrison commander to assist in the coup; wasn't all that hard, really, as the Imperial Governor and the Ubiqtorate Station Chief were real pieces of work. The sort of Imperials that gave all other Imperials a bad name.

"We'd already made the arrangements at the garrison. T- Mom was at the party, covering my back and distracting anyone from watching me as _I_ watched the table where the Governor and Station Chief were. The two components of the binary poison we'd chosen were harmless by themselves, and we'd spiked _all_ the food with the first half. I was watching for a chance to slip the second half into their drinks. Then the Governor sent their personal waiter off for more drink, and I saw the chance and..."

He shrugged.

"And then I was back at Mr. Wyler's party."

He shrugged again, at bit desperately this time.

"What's wrong with me, Cam?"


	9. He Will Rule Them With an Iron Sceptre

Supreme Commander Rupaak Kag, _not_ of the Praetorate Vong, Warrior of the Yuuzhan Vong, devotee of Yun Harla, snorted in amusement. He was not the first to see action in this infidel galaxy, not even counting Nom Anor and his scouts, for if the invasion timetable was proceeding according to plan, then the yammosk secreted at the ice world called Helska should have already sent forces outwards towards the next planets in line. Still, given his mission parameters, he hadn't exactly meant to face action quite so soon, but the inopportune presence of the infidel starship at his flotilla's division point forced his head.

Again he snorted. Though devoted to the Trickster Goddess, he never fell into the trap of trusting her, for she saved her most devious tricks for those in her service. And the sense of humor of Yun Harla was keen, twisted, perverse, and ever utterly inscrutable. As their chance encounter made absolutely clear.

Rupaak Kag was something of an anomaly for a Yuuzhan Vong warrior. He did not favor the frontal assault, the yelling of war cries and the chase for personal honor and glory, unless such a tactic was useful towards completing the mission. And while such tactics often were advisable, he did not disdain the backstab, the ambush, the flanking maneuver and the rear assault. Nor was he afraid of withdrawing to return and fight another day. Such trickery earned disdain and mockery from many in the Warrior Caste... and a devoted clique of like-minded followers.

That clique – and a sizable contingent of traditionalists who regarded their assignment to him as a personal insult and wished heartily to find some action worthy of their exalted honor and skill – had accompanied him on his current mission. They were ordered to stage attacks upon New Republic worlds and supply lines well in advance of the invasion, and thus force the military to redeploy in a defensive fashion, with a little here and a little there, trying to cover everything and thus covering nothing well.

Little enough martial honor to be had in such an endeavor, but Kag had seen value in the task.

Then, of course, Yun Harla had decided to have a merry laugh at his expense and placed that accursed infidel starship right in his path. The Goddess of Deception (_Bless and curse her both_, he thought with worshipful exasperation) had chosen, in her mirth, to compound the problem for him by allowing his flagship to get a very accurate vector trace, and to place a tracking tag, on the starship. Naturally, the escape of the enemy just Would Not Do for the traditionalists, and so Rupaak Kag had elected to pursue the retreating vessel.

And, he had to be honest with himself, it hadn't taken much to persuade him. Devotee of the Trickster or no, he was still _Yuuzhan Vong_, and the showing of quarter, or allowing the enemy to escape, was a sour taste upon his tongue. He set two thirds of his fleet our upon their mission, and then he took his flagship (the Matalok command cruiser _Erounalok_) and three other ships (an A-vek Iiluunu carrier, the _Vahong_; and two Uro-ik v'alh battleships, the _Fra'lat_ and _Drn'ta-Ur_), the three which carried the majority of his traditionalist contingent, and gave pursuit.

And ah, how fruitful that pursuit was. He pushed aside his own amusement.

"Tactician," the heavily scared warrior growled, "where are we?"

"My lord, this is the Xenen system, if we read the stars right," the Tactician replied. "It is known to us from the Intendant scouts."

"Is it, now," Kag mused. "What do we know about it, then?"

"It is the citadel of an elite military unit known as the Aurora Force. Their warriors are said to be skilled and puissant, my lord."

"That should please the warriors," Kag said with real amusement. "It seems that we have brought them to a proper fight."

"Yes, my lord."

"Current disposition of this... Aurora Force?"

The words felt strange in his mouth.

"Currently they have several ships in orbit around the planet; the yammosk is still working to identify them. No forward pickets to speak of, aside from a single ship some thirty degrees bearing to starboard. From the activity I can assume that they have detected us and are moving to intercept. Also – interesting."

"Go ahead, Tactician," Kag said after the younger warrior had stopped.

"My lord, it seems that one of the scouts had an encounter with this Aurora Force many years ago."

"_What!?_"

"He suicided before capture, destroying himself in one of their shuttles," the tactician said with a snarl of distaste. To die in one of the infidel vessels was... not a pleasant concept. "The Aurora Force and the local Imperial forces each dealt with true abominations."

"So does much of this galaxy, Tactician."

"Yes, but these involved the placing of living souls into... mechanical devices."

They both grimaced.

"There were only two of them; the scout ensured that one killed the other, and then he killed the survivor, and was himself killed making his escape from their flagship."

"He did well, Tactician," Kap rumbled, then shifted back to the present. "But we must not focus on such things, save to inspire us to do just as well. Do the infidel ships still advance towards us?"

"Yes, Supreme Commander."

"Good," he said with a very Yuuzhan Vong expression. The lust of battle came even unto Rupaak Kag; he just preferred to be canny when he could get away with it. "Signal the _Fra'lat_ and _Drn'ta-Ur_ to cover the _Vahong_, and then prepare to launch all coralskippers. Let us at least give these abomination-lovers a _taste_ of the Gods' judgment."


	10. He Will Dash Them to Pieces Like Pottery

_He walked the trail for a long time, and always it was the same. A rock there, the occasional squirrel here, and always the trees along the side. A few side paths, some of which he took, and all of which led him back to the primary trail. Always the day was sunny, yet cool and with a pleasant breeze._

_But then the trail changed._

_What had once been a straight and singular trail now forked. To the right the trail grew twisted, and dark, for the trees overshadowed the path and blocked out the sun. He could not see the end of that trail, for it twisted about, here a right angle, there a double-back, all joined with the green trees in concealing the destination of the trail in great shadows._

_As for the other path, he could see its end all too clearly._

_The trees were high and widely spaced; though voluminous, their leaves allowed through plenty of light, and were not green, but rather the red and gold of fall. The trail itself was wide, and straight, and while there were many paths that led from the darkened road to this red road, there were few that led back._

_At the very end of the trail was a collection of true aliens, the likes of which he'd never seen. Tall, obviously powerful in body, yet almost to a man terribly scarred and covered in the strangest tattoos. They carried great snakes in their hands, and wore armor that looked, impossibly, to be alive. A great chant rose up from the aliens, of an unknown and yet hauntingly familiar tongue. It was strange, but he could swear that he was almost able to pick out some of the-_

_The chant turned into a warsong as the man stepped out of the wood. He was of average height and build, clad in battle-armor as black as the void and argent trimmed, and his faced turned away from all but his enemy. He watched in great surprise as the man drew a bronze lightsaber, the hilt shaped in imitation of the krayt dragon, and ignited the grass-green blade. One of the lead aliens brandished his serpent-staff and snarled a challenge._

_The man raised the saber in mocking salute, then set to battle with the alien and claimed his head after the briefest duel. The man strode over the fallen alien and set upon the rest with a vengeful wrath, blade thrumming, black blood hissing, and the man's own tears turning to vapor upon that blade._

_Then he saw through the man's eyes, and his will moved the man's hands, for he was the man, and the xenocidal slaughter before him was his assumed duty to rid the galaxy of a great plague; and rid it he did._

_As he raised the lightsaber after the last alien fell, and turned it towards himself and drove the blade into his own gullet, he looked down and saw that his hands were stained black, permanently, for he had bathed in their blood._

* * *

He shot upright, and after a moment's disorientation was relived to find himself still in his cabin, on the _Illuminator_. Still, it looked a bit... different, somehow, but he attributed that to the muted lighting as he started to lay back down.

"Don't go back to sleep."

He whipped his head to the right, at the voice that had come from the empty portion of his bed. His eyes widened in surprise.

"We need you," she said.

* * *

"Gahphrprbbbpth!" Carlos DeLong exclaimed as he shot upright, for real this time. Now wide awake he stared at the far wall of his cabin, which looked exactly as it had when he'd laid down to sleep. Slowly, and with a strange sort of trepidation, he turned his head to look at the space next to him on the bed.

Still empty.

He reached out and touched it. Still cold.

He was – almost – disappointed.

Then the com chime sounded.

"Well, it's not like I was asleep," he grumbled as he reached over and hit the answer button. "Yes?"

"_General, flag bridge," _came the voice of Aral Contassia, _"Sorry to wake you, sir, but I think you need to get up here."_

* * *

The trip was not going as planned.

Robert DeLong wasn't really surprised by this, as the trip had been a bit of a spur-of-the-moment decision, and those _really_ didn't tend to work out well for him. Well, except for that one time, when the spur-of-the-moment-what-in-_hell_-were-you-thinking "plan" worked both worse and better than he'd had any right to expect. Most of the time, random action tended to get him shot at.

But honestly, this one should have worked. It was certainly simple enough, just put himself, Talia, and the right supplies into the _Vendetta_ and head up to LaGrange point L2. Easy. Simple. Good view of planet, nice romantic dinner, and Ven specifically instructed to keep her electronic eyes to herself, thank you very much. And, honestly, it _had_ worked, given that they'd finished dinner and then... moved on, so to speak.

Which was about when Ion came screaming in. Bit of a mood-killer, that.

His first plan, once he's stopped cussing and Talia had stopped laughing, was to head down to Xenen's south pole, dig Ion out, and mock-strangle him. His second plan, once Ven's long-range sensors spotted the... odd looking starships jumping in, was to get the engines and weapons back online and join the fight.

At least he thought they were hostiles. They were certainly acting hostile, and it wasn't too far of a stretch to connect their arrival with Ion's. Still though, he wasn't feeling any hostile intend coming off of the ships, so he reached with the Force and tried to feel them out-

At which point he turned white and had to take a moment to stop his hands from shaking.

It just wasn't _possible_, so he looked again.

"Ven, patch me through to Wayfarer Station," he said once he was certain he had control of his voice. He looked over at Talia, in the copilot's seat, and saw the same look of this-is-so-wrong consternation on her face. She felt it, or, rather, didn't, too.

"I've been trying to do that for the last fifteen minutes!" the AI replied. "I can't seem to get through."

"What do you mean, you can't get through?"

"As best I can tell, they changed the handshake protocols a week ago," she (female AI gestalt) explained. "Somehow, I didn't get the upload."

"Do we at least have a working transponder?" Talia asked.

"The transponder code is valid, yes," Ven answered, somewhat abashed.

"Well," Robert said, "I guess we'll have to be a nice, non-communicative-but-still-helpful surprise for the fighters."

"And the fact that we can't feel those things in the Force?" Talia said, gesturing at the incoming warships.

"Bad surprise," Robert answered. The engines came online, and he set in an intercept course for the enemy fighters. "But what the heck. The old Jedi _were_ always about 'balance'."

"I just hope the kids'll be alright."

* * *

Carlos was still securing his uniform tunic (cut in the old Imperial style, but space black and with silver trim, rank indicated by silver collar pips and cuff stripes) as he stepped into the _Illuminator_'s flag bridge. Greeting him there was Aral, a nervous looking lieutenant j.g., and a holo of Eric Corwin, the ship's captain. He raised an eyebrow at the holo.

"_Aral called me just after you," _Eric answered. _"I'm on the bridge now."_

"Right," Carlos said, and then he turned towards Aral and the lieutenant. "I'm going to assume that this is bad."

"Most likely, sir," Aral admitted. "That's why I called Eric... but I'll let Lieutenant Atkins explain."

The poor kid, who was the 'night watch' communications officer for the flag bridge, looked to be about to take a fright.

"It's alright, Tommy," Carlos said gently. "Just tell me what's happened."

"Uh, yes sir," the lieutenant said, momentarily stymied by the fact that the General knew his name. "Well, um, you see, I've struck up a bit of an acquaintance with one of the communications technicians at Shay Memorial Base. Just over the Holonet, sir. We, um, we play dejarik-by-mail, occasionally in holochats, and, well..."

Tommy reached over to the control board and called up a record file. The screen displayed a dejarik board with a game in session, and the face of a not at all unattractive young lady, whom Carlos figured to be the com tech in question. He decided, for the moment, not to bring up the subject of the young lieutenant's use of the _Illuminator_'s com system for this sort of thing.

Nor did he mention that Tommy really should have moved the Ng'ok to the right, rather than to the left.

However, the com tech apparently had felt no such restraint, and taunted him gleefully as she moved to exploit the opening he'd left. The record continued in that same vein for another minute or two, until the red alert sounded.

He recognized the voice of Nylan Bridger in the background, barking out orders, and then one order to "call Golgan III" and-

And then the video fell away to static.

"Alright," Carlos said after a moment, his stomach and heart heavy like lead, "I believe it's time for Lieutenant Atkins to meet his girlfriend in the flesh. Aral-"

"Third Squadron is out on anti-piracy duties," she answered before he even finished the question. "First Squadron, including the _Freedom's Fire_, is still undergoing refit and repair; most of the crews are still dirtside. Second Squadron is pulling Home Fleet duty, so their scattered all over the system. However, we can have the _Ketaris, Olahan Beach, _and _Azure Woods_ in formation with us in about fifteen minutes from now."

He just stared at her, his mouth twitching. So was have the flag bridge. She had the grace to look somewhat abashed, but certainly not appologetic.

"I figured you'd order a reconnaissance in force, sir," she explained.

"And this, ladies and gentlemen," he said with a grin that he only half felt, "is why I keep her around. Okay. Lieutenant Atkins, contact the _Ketaris, Olahan Beach, _and _Azure __Woods, _and instruct them to form up on us. Then raise Commodore Drax, on the _Argent Sound_, and Commodore Kincaid, on the _Freedom's Fire_. Instruct Drax to maintain the system patrol, and Kincaid to pull together whatever he can and get ready to hyper to the Xenen system on my signal."

"Aye, sir!"

"Eric, have your navigator draw up a jump to the outer edges of the Xenen system. Then get ready to fight your ship, Captain."

"Will do, General," Eric Corwin acknowledged, then signed off the holo.

When Carlos finished barking out orders and everyone on the bridge was to their assigned tasks, he turned to the central holo plot and pulled up a map of the Xenen system. He needed to read the ground, the orbits and the LaGrange points, so he could plan the action...

He also needed to call the president and get authorization for this deployment... but that could wait. Even if he had to get authorization after the fact, Martyn wouldn't begrudge it.

Not for this.

"The outer edge, sir?" Aral asked quietly. She come up to stand beside him at the tactical plot. The chief of staff's place.

"Like you said, this is just a reconnaissance in force, and we _don't_ know what's going on. We jump in, get a sensor reading, and then act accordingly, just like Vran did at Second Xenen. If the AF is still engaged, or victorious, we will advance to help. If they've been defeated-" his voice didn't waver at all, but he couldn't quite keep the worry out of his eyes "-then we play tauntaun-and-wamp in the outer system until Everett can get here with the rest of the Fleet. Aside from that..."

He shrugged.

"Aral, the AF is engaged in battle with _somebody_ right now. We've managed to shave down the transit time, but it still takes thirty-six hours to get from here to there. What's happening _now_ will be done and over when we arrive, just in time to help pick up the pieces. I just wish there was more we could do."

* * *

"There has to be _something_ we can do!" Sarah DeLong queried a bit too loudly. "Besides just sitting here..."

When Robert and Talia had headed for their little romantic getaway in orbit, and just haring off on a whim wasn't exactly something they were used to doing, had wondered what to do with their three offspring. At the last they'd decided just to let them have the run of the house, with Cameron (who was almost but not quite as responsible as most thought him to be) assigned to keep an eye on Sarah (who was a good bit more responsible than most gave her credit for) and Matt (who was just as responsible as everyone thought he was, which wasn't really saying much). Cameron assured them that all would be well, that they should just take off an have a good time on well-deserved parent's-night-out, and not to worry about thing.

Upon their departure, he'd promptly invited Jaq over (much to the delight of his siblings, though Sarah seemed both a bit more delighted than Matt and a _lot_ more delighted that Cameron was really comfortable with), and the foursome set out to just roam around the base and the surrounding grounds.

As such, they were in the base when the Ion's call went out. They were still recovering from that when the sirens went off and an obvious attack began.

Just sitting quiet during a fight did not come naturally to any of them. They were each of nature and nurture both the sort to jump in and help wherever and whenever they could. Which meant that they'd many a time come home from school with black eyes and bruises, but all acquired in service of a good cause. Really.

"We'll think of something," Cameron said in what he hoped was a soothing tone, hoping to keep his (excitable, by her own admission) sister calm, and glad beyond all reason that Matt had decided that now was _not_ the time to pester her, but was trying to 'help' Jaq instead. "For now, though, we're in the shelter, so just stay cool until we find out what's going on."

They'd headed, counter-intuitively, to the nearest air-raid shelter when the sirens began. Cameron and Jaq had figured, pretty much simultaneously, that it would be best as the moment to get themselves off the street and out of everybody's way until they could figure out something to do. Besides, if whoever was up there decided on orbital bombardment, well, better down here than up there.

"But what about Mom and Dad?" she asked.

"Don't worry about them," Cam replied, reaching out with the Force and touching his father and mother. He sent them reassurance that he, Sarah, and Matt were all fine. They sent reassurance of the same, and also that they were getting into the fight, and that the enemy was a bit... strange.

"They're fine," he said after a moment. "A bit worried about us, but ready to fight off the bad guys."

He didn't mention the bit about the enemy, how they didn't exist in the Force.

"I know," she said, relaxing with a sigh. "I just..."

Cam grin and reach over to muss her hair. She glared at him, but then grinned herself and mock-whapped his arm.

"C'mon, sis, let's go see what-"

"I'm in," Jaq called out. He'd secreted himself in a corner with a datapad as soon as they'd entered the shelter, and had set about, with 'assistance' from Matt, hacking into the AF's battlenet.

"How bad is it?" Cam asked as he guided his sister over to his best friend, and very pointedly did _not_ notice the way she looked at Jaq.

Matt, for his part, stared at the pad and nodded in a knowing fashion. He was a bright kid, no doubt, and clearly talented in the ways of computers, but if Matt DeLong understood half of what was flowing past on Jaq's hacking screen, then Cam was a mynock's uncle.

For that matter, Cam wondered if _Jaq_ really understood half of what was on his hacking screen. Such things, for Jaq, were almost as if they were instinct, not knowledge.

"Looks like somebody's trying to hit the system," Jaq replied, calling up a real-time tactical plot. "Looks like only four cap ships, though. Lots of fighters."

"Unidentified?" Matt asked. "Not Remnant?"

"Doesn't look like it."

"Okay, main battle's in space," Cam said, trying to give the conversation some direction. "Is there _anything_ we can do to help, besides staying out of the way?"

"You want to stay out of the way?" Sarah asked, incredulous. Cam shrugged, and Jaq nodded.

"With an unknown enemy, it might be best," Jaq answered her. "It would certainly be one less thing for Aunt Indy to worry about. But if we're looking for stuff to do..."

He called up another list, and scrolled down it until-

"Ah, this looks..." he murmured, and then he selected one item on the list, which looked like and directory of internal communications lines, and switched the pad's speakers.

"_-do you mean, 'indisposed'?"_ came a very irate voice from the pad.

"_They're, ah, they're drunk sir."_

"_In the middle of the bloody afternoon?!"_

"_They had night shift, and it was a bachelor party."_

"_Can they operate the systems while intoxicated?"_

"_Not while unconscious-drunk, sir."_

"_Good gods, the Admiral will have their asses."_

"_Demon Murphy strikes again, sir. So what do we do about PDB 0427?"_

"_For the moment, leave it operational but unmanned, under computer control. If worse come to worse and we actually needed the PDB's, then we'll have crews for it soon enough."_

Jaq shut off the sound at looked at Cam expectantly. So did Matt and Sarah.

"Are you thinking what I'm thinking?" Cam asked with a grin.

"If I'm thinking what you think I'm thinking," Jaq answered with his own grin, "then yes. You do realize, of course, that I'm not sure how to get into one of the PDB's. And we might not even be able to operate it if we do get in. And what'll happen if we get caught in the act. Not to mention what our _parents_ will to do us even it we _don't_ get caught."

"Yeah, that had occurred to me."

"Okay," Jaq answered, mollified. "Sounds like fun."


	11. Pellman's Legacy III

The first line of defense for a planet facing an assault from space is a mobile system fleet. Such a fleet not only has the advantage of keeping most of the turbolaser fire _away_ from a planet's surface, as turbolaser fire directed _at_ a planet's surface is the encyclopedic definition of "the suck", but it also has the flexibility to respond to any errors (or acts of brilliance) on part of the invaders. Say, for instance, if an attacker really flubs up the initial jump and arrives in the outer system. The mobile force can then jump to engage, and hopefully end the battle before the light from said battle reaches the inhabited planet in question.

There was at least one incident of that during the Rebellion, when a rebel assault mistimed the jump and got itself bushwhacked a good five light-hours out from the planet in question. The defending Imperials, returning to the planet after a four-hour battle, had pulled out an old optical telescope for their AAR. It was the sort of thing that both sides still toasted in bars, for the style factor alone.

The second line of defense consists of minefields and "fixed" weapons emplacements, located either in high orbit or at various points in the system itself. These are of somewhat limited utility, as unless the aforementioned mobile fleet can herd the attacker into contact with the defenses, or they are emplaced around objects or locations that an attacker _must_ strike, then said attacker can easily bypass them and continue on to engage the objective. A solar system is huge, with many times ten to the twenty-ninth power cubic _kilometers_ of volume to play around with. A system cannot, then, be entirely closed off with fixed defenses.

However, a well-placed minefield, or defensive platform cluster, should not be underestimated. Because while a system can never be fully interdicted, any system worth attacking has a target in it that _must_ be attacked. Usually, that target also _must_ be defended. And while an attacker has a fully three-hundred sixty degrees spherical of available attack vectors, a cunningly placed platform cluster, or the ability to emplace mines on-the-fly, can add a certain _piquancy_ to a system defense.

The third line of defense, ere a full invasion takes place, is the Planetary Defense Batteries. Generally designed to range from atmosphere to just past geosynchronous orbit, the acronym PDB has received a number of alternate meanings throughout history, most equal parts profane and fatalistic. For they, quite frankly, the last line of defense before the infantry gets involved. Or the orbital bombardment starts. Or the rocks start falling down the gravity well.

Or all three.

The PDBs on Xenen weren't part of the planet's facilities at the time of the Aurora Force's first... arrival on station. In fact, it wasn't until after Variner his own self re-invaded the Xenen system (the _second_ Imperial operation to do so, by and by) and the AF and GDF retook the place that the PDBs were designed and installed. A case of closing the blast door after the smuggler has gone through, perhaps, but what else can one do?

Xenen's PDBs were arranged in trios, each cluster forming an equilateral triangle around Shay Memorial Base and each of the major population centers. Each PDB had three long-range turbolaser batteries, and three long-range ion cannon batteries, for to engage capital ships in orbit. Also, each sported a substantial collection of quad turbolaser cannons and concussion missile launchers, for use against fighters or landing craft that managed to breach atmosphere. The... substantial power generators for the beam weapons, and even more substantial magazines for the missile launchers, were located beneath the PDBs, and were easily the single most armored locations on the planet. For good reason, that; one "lucky shot" to the C-M magazine would likely cause the warheads to sympathetically detonate, which given the PDB's proximity to either the primary base or a major city would easily redefine the word "suck".

PDB 0427 (they weren't numbered consecutively-as-constructed, but rather according to an algorithm that was designed by committee (read, political concerns) and that "it seemed like a good idea at the time" was the best that could be said about it) was exactly like the prototypical Xenen PDB. In fact, it _was_ the prototypical Xenen PDB, since it had been the first one constructed. As such it normally received the crack PDB crews: best shots, best at on-the-fly maintenance, best at spit-and-polish. In theory. In reality... well, the secondary ion gunner _was _getting married, and what _else_ was a well-greased machine of a PDB crew supposed to _do_ at a time like that except close ranks and get hammered in one last night of freedom?

Besides, it wasn't as if someone was going to invade the Xenen system, ferfrakssake. That would be just... _stupid_.

So the crack crew lay on the floor of a hotel room in an alcohol induced stupor; someone _was _invading the Xenen system, in ships that looked like a hallucinogen-induced concept of a tumor; and all that PDB 0427 had to man it was a pair of thirteen year old boys and two twelve year old fraternal twins.

Had it tear ducts, the venerable structure would have wept.

Another thing it didn't have was a guard, the theory being that were a malicious sort able to gain access to a PDB then the AF would already be dancing terrible the charlie foxtrot, and that warm bodies would best be needed elsewhere. Namely, covering an evac line.

Besides, Jaq Pellman had put in a fitting 'reward' for any such unauthorized persons who managed to force the door's security lock.

The same security lock which young Jaq Losoda poured over in concentration. The lock itself had no scomp link, so he couldn't attach his pad and hack it directly. Whatever files in the primary database that contained the access codes were stuck behind a couple hundred layers of firewalls, passcodes, ready-to-fire virii, and at least one program that looked like an ancient first-person shooter. Also, the very first layer of security was digitally marked with a sign that literally said "Here be Dragons." So getting at the codes the old fashioned way was definitely out.

He was about to start guessing, a prospect that did not thrill him, as he wouldn't put it past the late Colonel to have install a hidden blaster or somesuch at the lock, which would pop out and kill whomever entered the wrong code three times. Or worse. He didn't know what would really be _worse_ than that. But Pellman would have thought of something.

He was about to try guessing anyway, when-

-_'The code is Charlie-Lima-Indigo-Seven-Five-Three-Two'_ came into his head. Just on a lark, and before he could stop himself, he entered the code on the keypad.

Lo and behold, the door opened.

He heard the cheering at his back, felt Cam clapping him on the shoulder and congratulating him, but all he could think was where in _hell_ that code had come from... and why it had come in the same voice 'he' used in the flashbacks?

"Jaq?"

He shook his head at Cam's questioning tone, and brought himself back to the present... back to the _mission_. He could worry about the source of the information later; so long as it _worked_, he was perfectly willing to go along with it.

For now.

"We're okay," Jaq replied. "Just... you know, waiting to see if a half-starved rancor comes out or something."

"Nah," Cam said with grin, as he led the party into the PDB. "Rancor wasn't his style, from what Dad's said. Now, a half starved _wampa_..."

"Wampa wouldn't survive in this climate," Matt announced. Sarah made a remark about when was the last time _he'd_ been to Hoth, and Matt stuck his tongue out at her and then made a snide comment right back. It was looking to turn into a full-fledged twin pester-match, so Cam turned around and started to tell them to cool it.

Then they were all four into the PDB's foyer, and the door slammed shut behind them.

"EEEP!" Sarah exclaimed, snark forgotten.

"_Warning. Negative match on authorized biometrics," _intoned a pleasant sounding female computer voice. _"Initiating emergency security procedures. Have a nice day."_

"_EEEEP!_" exclaimed _both_ Sarah and Matt. Cam started to duck even as he looked for opening gunports and went for his lightsaber. Jaq... Jaq just stood there, in the middle of the foyer, as if listening.

"Computer," he said with far more calm than he had any right feeling, "command override Papa-Echo-Lima-Lima-One-One-Two-Three-Five. Cancel emergency security procedures. Add biometrics of current party to authorized database, command code Mike-Able-Nike-Eight-One-Three. Execute commands."

"_Override code accepted. Command code accepted; biometrics added to authorized database. Welcome to Planetary Defense Battery Zero Four Two Seven. Have a nice day."_

The far door opened, and Jaq let out a breath he hadn't known he'd held and sagged with relief. Then he realized that the others were staring at him, Sarah and Matt with something that looked a bit like awe, and Cam with something that was quite clearly concern. He looked at his friend pleadingly, and Cam nodded.

"Sarah, Matt," Cam said quietly, "you two go on ahead. See if you can figure out how to get the control working, all right?"

The responded with an okay and practically ran into the control room, though Sarah did so a bit more reluctantly than Matt, and Jaq _thought_ he saw her cast a glance back at-

Good _grief_, had she just looked _that way_... at _him_? As if everything else he had going on wasn't weird enough!

"Um, Jaq?" Cam asked uncertainly. "How did..."

Jaq pulled his brain away from another possible complication and shook his head.

"Cam, I... don't ask. Just don't ask."

"Why not?" he said, not pressing, not challenging, but genuinely curious.

"Because," Jaq answered with a very slight smile, "I don't have an answer. Not right now. Let's... let's just get this thing ready to fight, okay?"

"Okay."


	12. C'mon In

"So, can we work with this?" Cam asked as he and Jaq crossed into the control room.

"Oh, sure," Matt replied with an airy wave of his hand. "I just like that video game we play. You know, the one with the guy and the things."

"Oh. Yeah. That game. So we can engage if need be?"

Matt nodded, with a look that said _'duh, that's what I just told you.'_

"Sarah, range to targets?" Jaq asked. She was at the tactical board, and that sounded like something that one should ask someone who sits at a tactical board.

"Um, looks like one-hundred twenty thousand kilometers... and closing," she said nervously but steadily.

"Still a ways out, yet," Cam muttered. Then, louder, "alright, lets keep an eye on the battle and try to assign priority targets. Well start firing at extreme, but hopefully we won't-"

An alarm sounded and a red light flashed, cutting off whatever he was about to say. Jaq whirled towards the security screen, just in time to see two people drop into the foyer. He could see the male say something, but the volume was turned low and they hadn't taken time to figure out those controls, so neither he nor the others heard it.

"Who the heck is that?" Matt asked loudly.

"Well that," Sarah replied, gesturing at the woman, "is Amanda Lance. I have no clue who the guy is. Looks familiar, though..."

At that point the security system came online, the message (_"Have a nice day"_ and all) sounded in the control room for the benefit of those watching, and the shots started flying.

Later, Jaq would swear that he meant to shut down the blaster and open the door. He was after all, bare seconds away from the door switch, and his mouth was open to give the verbal override. He just... didn't.

What he did instead, what all the boys did instead, was to comment on Amanda Lance's saber form.

"She's good."

"Oooh, that was close!"

"The guy ain't half bad himself. You see all that dodging? That's good dodging."

"Did you see that? I need to get her to teach me how to do that."

"Whoa! She almost took off that guy's-"

"Hey, I figured out who that guy is!" Matt enthused. "That's Alextravia Grentarii!"

"I thought he was dead," Cam observed.

"Cool! A zombie!"

"Boys!" Sarah snapped sternly. "Don't you think we should, you know, _let them in?!_"

The three glanced at each other, abashed. Jaq about to yet again open his mouth to issue the verbal override when... the blasters stopped firing. They all looked at each other, each look revealing an inner way between "Yay!" and "Oh, _shaavit_."

_Shaavit_ won out.

_"Warning. Counter-insurgency program level one unsuccessful. Initiating counter-insurgency program level two. Have a nice day."_

"Command override Papa-Echo-Lima-Lima-One-One-Two-Three-Five! Cancel level two procedures!" Jaq yelled.

"_Unable to comply,"_ the computer answered sweetly. _"Gas concentration has reached point of no return. Lethal amounts will reach subjects even if ventilated immediately. Have a nice day."_

"Oh, _shaavit_ all _over_ the Emperor's black bones," Jaq growled as he stabbed at the intercom button. "Ms. Lance!" he called, hoping she heard him, "when we open the door, get ready to move!"

Jaq turned towards the door, but Cameron was already there. No words on instruction were needed, and Cam pushed the switch to open the door.


	13. Signs of the Crimson Thunder

It was an abbreviated start-up checklist.

"Power up dorsal turret."

"Dorsal at red. Closing circuit breaker."

"Engines are go. Shields go. Torpedo tubes... Ven, how are the feeds looking?"

"_Feeds are good, Robert. We've got a full magazine, and no blockage."_

"Dorsal at barber pole," Talia called out, then, "... and cycled to green. Ventral at green. We're good to go."

"Right," Robert said, giving his wife a smile and then turning in his seat. "Ven, you've been monitoring the battle, right?"

"_Right, same as you."_

"Who'd be the best pilot for it?"

The AI was silent.

"Yeah, that's what I figured," Robert said with a knowing chuckle. "It _would_ work out that the computer is the best pilot out the three of us, wouldn't it?"

"We did leave Cam on the surface," Tal observed with a shrug. Their oldest son was proving to be a talented pilot.

"Vagaries of the Daemon Murphy. Can't be helped... and it feels like they're, ah, keeping busy."

"Getting into trouble, you mean."

"Yeah, but a _good_ kind of trouble."

"You hope."

"I hope. So, Ven, you up to flying on your own?"

"_Rachel _did_ upgrade my routines a few months ago,"_ the AI said helpfully.

"Good girl," Robert said, giving the console a reassuring pat as he rose up out of the pilot's chair. "I've got dorsal."

"How come you get the dorsal turret?" Talia grumbled as she rose up out of the copilot's seat.

"I thought you liked me on top."

Only by virtue of the fact that she was not aiming to kill, and that itself was a very near thing, did Robert DeLong dodge the flight manual that Talia DeLong chucked at his head.

---

"The battle goes well, my lord."

"Not as well as it should, Tactician," Supreme Commander Rupaak Kag murmured. "They engage only with fighters; fighters that we _should_ be able to slaughter like larval grutchin! We have killed but few, and for far higher losses than I would like. I should have pressed for a yammosk... but enough. Are all the coralskippers in play?"

"Yes, my lord."

"And the infidel's warship?"

"It moves slowly. Hesitantly. Uncertain."

"Confused, perhaps, by the sight of living ships? Overawed by the works of the gods," Kag mused. "Or, more likely, waiting for something. In either case, now is the time to press inward. If they are overawed, then let us show them our might, and turn their awe into fear. If waiting, then let us spring their trap before it is ready.

"_Drn'ta-Ur_ is to break formation and threaten the infidel's station; this should force their warship into action. _Fra'lat_ is to remain in escort of _Vahong_. However, we will form up on them as well. Should the infidel warship continue to engage us, _Drn'ta-Ur_ will swing around and take them in the flank. Should the infidel warship turn to support their station, we will do the same for _Drn'ta-Ur_. Do you understand this, Tactician?"

"Yes, Supreme Commander. I do."

"Then pass on my orders to your villip choir, Tactician. And from there unto the ships."

"It will be done, my lord..."

Rupaak Kag gave an expression that only a charitable, and preternaturally knowledgeable, xenologist would call an analog of a smile.

"Speak your mind, Tactician," he barked.

"My lord, the ship captains will ask how far you plan to press the offensive."

"Will they," Kag whispered dangerously. "Were my orders unclear when we set out?"

"No, my lord. They were perfectly clear, but the captains will see a chance for early conquest, and they_ will_ ask."

"Tell me, Tactician. _Can_ we take this system?"

"If the infidel forces remain as they are... yes. It is likely."

"That accords well with my own interpretation," Kag said approving. "Now, Tactician. Can we _hold_ this system?"

"No, my lord. Not with unknown and unfought forces on each of our flanks."

"_And_ in our rear," Kag corrected. Then he relaxed. "Then, that is your answer to the captains, my friend. Tell them that we are to do as much damage as possible, including at least one close-in pass at the planet, this Xenen, and then we _will_ leave this system. Make _certain_ that they understand and acknowledge that."

"Yes, Supreme Commander. They will not like it."

"I do not care if they like it," Kag snapped. "I only care that they _obey_. To that end, Tactician, also signal, _covertly_, our agents on the ships. Pass them instructions that they are to remove the captains, on _my_ authority, if my orders are not carried out to the _letter_. I will not have our mission dishonored by brain-dead fools who only seek glory in charge and death, rather than in victory.

"Now, let us put the fear of the gods into these infidels."

---

"It's too bad that we can't broadcast on the tac frequency," Robert mused from the dorsal turret. The _Vendetta _was making best speed towards the developing furball, and if Robert read the chart right, they'd be engaged in about five minutes.

"Why's that?" Talia asked over the com circuit. She still sounded a bit put-out by his unilateral calling of the dorsal turret.

"Well, we can't really make an entrance this way, can we? No calling up Wayfarer station and letting them know that we're locked, cocked, and ready to _do_ something."

At that moment a pair of enemy fighters, whatever they were, broke out of the furball and vectored towards the _Vendetta_.

"I think," Talia remarked dryly, "that we don't really have to announce that for everybody to figure it out."


	14. No Wrong to Fire on the Enemy

Had Ven, the AI flying the YT-2000 _Vendetta_, a head, then she would have cocked it slightly in curious befuddlement, for the sensor readings were... odd.

Not just because of the strange emanations coming from the fighters themselves, which were more like some of Syri's old sensor records of an Ithulian Ore Hauler than, say, an X-wing. While truly _living_ ships were practically non-existant in the history of the galaxy, certain variations on the theme were known to pop up every now and then, so the concept wasn't totally unheard of. It was generally considered unworkable, if for no other reason than the stuff designed to shield flesh from radiation doesn't really graft well onto said flesh, but it did prove great fodder for science-fiction writers looking for something... spectacularly above the norm.

Nor because of the gravitic readings associated with each ship. The ability to manipulate gravity was a somewhat understood and well-used technology, be it manifest in an inertial dampener or in an Interdictor's gravity well projectors, and Ven often found herself marveling (AI or no, she had the ability to do that) that no one had yet worked out to make a gravitic drive system. Until now, at least. But even then a gravitic drive looked a lot like the sensor readout from an interdiction field, albeit smaller and slightly more focused.

The really odd part was the anomalous reading that accompanied each of the gravity fields. It looked like a point-source of black body radiation, but there were a couple of oddities there. She took a moment and dedicated a few processing cycles to analyzing the sensor readouts from one enemy fighter. That solved one mystery, for it became clear that the point source was moving along with the fighter's own vector, meaning that whatever the point-source was, it was the key component to the fighter's drive system. But the other mystery... well. It was black body radiation, sure enough, but it was very _atypical_ black body radiation, and so Ven cross-referenced the sensor readouts to her database-

No.

That _couldn't_ be right.

_Hawking radiation?_

Who were these people, that could so casually manipulate _black holes_ that they used them as drive systems for _fighters?_

How do you fight something like that? It was... it was...

It was rather simple in concept, really. So they used black holes as a drive system, eh? And also as a shielding system, given certain other data points. Well... a drive system is a drive system, a shield system is a shield system, a fighter is a fighter, and no captain can do very wrong by offering battle to the enemy, to paraphrase a beyond-ancient human sea-admiral.

Simple in concept, but complex in execution. As they all discovered when the two enemy craft reached engagement range of the _Vendetta_. All three ships opened fire; molten rock splashed against the _Vendetta's _particle shields, and the enemy's gravitic drives swallowed up Robert and Talia's fire. The ships passed each other after that first volley, neither having damaged the other save for the drain on Ven's shield systems. The ships began to vector around to reengage, with Robert firing in controlled bursts at the enemy fighters, given Ven's orientation. The enemy fighter's drives continued to drink in his fire.

There was something strange about the enemy's maneuvers, though, and it took Ven a moment to figure out what that was. The available data was too small of a set to draw any reliable conclusions, yet she was ready to tentatively identify the enemy as a warrior culture. They fought with a certain coordinated wildness, one similar to that employed by the ancient Mandalorians, or the Gamorreans, but-

But it was nowhere _near_ as coordinated as it should have been.

* * *

Rupaak Kag shook his head as he watched the tactical villip. The plan was set, and in hand of his ship commanders and squadron commanders, but...

But the warriors that he'd brought into this battle were the ones who considered war to be little more than a chance to win personal honor in glorious combat. The ones who would often tell The Plan to go take a flying leap into the arms of the Lover Gods, because they were by Yun Yammka going in there to take on the _entire_ enemy force with the might and fury that is their heritage, and thus win great honor for caste, creche, kin, and their own blood. The ones who could pound their chests and bellow their devotion to Yun Yuuzhan, to the Twin Gods, and to Supreme Overlord Shimmra with the best of them, but who knew about as much about how to win a battle as a Shamed One knew about the proper implantation of a radank claw!

The stupid ones. The ones who most needed a yammosk, which he did not have, to restrain their militant zeal and focus it onto a _useful_ goal.

Had his mission been to capture and cleanse this system for the Yuuzhan Vong, then he would have felt well and truly angry rather than mildly annoyed.

In any case, the winnowing his fleet was experiencing was to be expected during the opening phase of such a campaign. Many, after all, would flock to the side of the gods to claim a role in their conquest of this galaxy, in the subjection of the infidels. Yet the gods alone would decided who was worthy to reach that point of honor.

And if in nothing else, Yun Yammka and Yun Harla were of one mind on what to do with the unworthy.

* * *

The enemy fighters had a much smaller turn radius than did the _Vendetta_, but their poor coordination did them in. One turned slightly tighter than the other, and so both had to veer away sharply to avoid collision... just as Ven reoriented to face them head-on. Two shots from Robert at one, two shots from Talia at the other, and few shots by Ven from the axial cannon just to confuse things, and the two fighters were so much expanding gas and debris. So she wheeled around again, looking for more targets.

Funny, those were the only two that had come after them. For a very brief moment, Ven felt insulted.

"_Ven,"_ Robert called over the intercom, _"take a look at our two o'clock."_

"_That looks like the _Stormcrow_ and _Malady_," _Ven replied, after she'd glanced over the sensor data. _"I cannot hail them yet, but their shields are down, and they look to be in trouble."_

"_Yeah, you could put it that way,"_ Robert said with a harsh laugh. _"Listen, the _Stormcrow_ is Mark Wyler's ship, and his and Janet's oldest is a Jedi. Move to engage that cluster of fighters on their six, and I'll try to contact Les Wyler through the Force. Don't know the kid very well, but it just might work."_

"_It would be good to get some coordination," _Ven admitted as she set the ship on course and went to full military acceleration. The DeLongs liked to tinker; this often proved... unsettling for the AIs that inhabited their ships, but Ven wholeheartedly approved of the improvements they'd made to her engines.

Which would help greatly in the current, Ven noted as she screamed in on the enemy at a seventy-percent greater speed than a YT-2000 had any business traveling, and let fly the first of many proton torpedoes at the fighters that harassed the _Stormcrow_ and _Malady_.


	15. This is No Way to Make First Contact

The first barrage, that of proton torpedoes, killed only two of the strange fighters. The rest of the missiles were absorbed by the that strange voids that served as both propulsion and shield for the enemy craft.

The second barrage, that of fire from _the _Vendetta's turbolaser turrets, randomized by Robert and Talia's firing patterns and by a strange sort of roll-jink thing Ven made the ship do, didn't kill quite as many of the strange fighters as Robert had hoped; their void propulsion systems drank up too many of the shots for that. What it _did_ do, as planned, was disrupt the pursuit of the _Stormcrow_ and _Malady_, as the act of redirecting their voids for defense pulled the fighters off course. What had been a relatively well-ordered pursuit devolved into a tangled mess of vectors and no fewer than three collisions.

Into that tangled mess stormed the _Vendetta_, turbolasers blazing at targets of opportunity. The ship cut through to the other side of the slowly recovering mass, then wheeled around and dove back in.

The fighters that the _Stormcrow_ and _Malady_ pursued each attempted to turn about and join the developing and glorious furball, and were rapidly destroyed for their efforts. Then Mark and Trevvik wheeled their ships around and flew into the general melee.

_'Les,'_ Robert sent once things had calmed down a mite (and very, very tiny mite it was), _'tell your dad and Trevvik to set their coms to channel 427.8. That should allow us to talk.'_

He received an affirmative from Les, then continued to service targets, which was not proving as easy as it should have since the enemy pilots were a _lot_ better at intercepting his shots than they were in holding formation, as he waited for the signal.

Then, _"Robert?"_

"Hey, Mark. Fun times, huh?"

He scored a kill.

"_Not exactly what I would call it. Did you know that these things can strip away our shields?"_

The _Vendetta _rocked suddenly as an all-too-familiar alarm filled the ship.

"Nope, but I think we just found that out," Robert said grimly as he glanced at his status board. "Since we're pretty much buck-naked at this point, how about me, you, and Trevvik do the old 'you-watch-my-back-I'll-watch-yours' thing?"

"_Works for me,"_ Mark replied, with a confirmation from Trevvik following a moment later. _"Anyway, you ever seen anything like this before?"_

Somehow, Robert figured he _wasn't_ talking about the Furball From Hell.

"Only in one or two poorly understood nightmares. Helluva First Contact, ain't it?"

"_New contacts,"_ Ven broke in before Mark could answer. _"Eight fighters incoming at eleven o'clock, thirty-six degress high. Eight more in coming at four o'clock, seventy-two degrees low. New targets are holding in tight squadron formation, much tighter than this current group held before engagement."_

"Analysis?"

"_We haven't engaged the cream of this invasion force, Robert," _Ven answered.

"Well," Robert muttered, looking at his own tactical plot and the two incoming clusters of little red dots, "this is gonna suck..."

He scored another kill, his fourth of this engagement.

He wondered if it would be enough.


	16. Hit It! Hit It With A Shoe!

On a good note, they didn't have to move any of the concussion missiles. Each missile tube fed directly from the central magazine, but _always_ kept a single missile "up the spout". And fortunately, as Jaq and Matt's initial inspection determined, none of those "ready" missiles had suffered any corrosion or other maintenance causalities.

On a bad note, the feeders for tubes two, four, and nine were not so lucky. Feeder two was a known issue, one that had been marked a good six weeks prior but which the maintenance crews hadn't gotten to yet. Feeder four had suffered a colonization by some sort of local rodent sometime since its last opscheck; said colony discovered why nesting next to a power conduit is _not_ a good idea when Jaq signaled Sarah to power up the feeder.

They'd fixed the damage, and the feeder itself was working fairly well, albeit with the vile smell of flash-roasted critter.

The true mystery was feeder nine. There was no corrosion. There were no missing parts. The maintenance sensors, which told Matt and Jaq that everything in feeder nine was hunky-dory fine were themselves confirmed to be hunky-dory fine. The feeder just would not turn on.

"Okay, Sarah," Jaq said for the third time as Matt slid back out from around the feeder and gave him a tentative thumbs-up. "Try it again."

They stood back and waited. Nothing happened. Matt started muttering words of which Taila and Robert would not have approved; they were of the opinion that one needed to be at least seventeen before one could cuss effectively, otherwise it just sounded silly.

"Sarah?"

"_Yes, I _did_ push the button,"_ she answered testily. _"Just like the _last_ two times."_

Matt growled something that likely would have been very inventive had it been audible and stalked back over to the feeder. He glowered at the recalcitrant device for a long, fulminating moment, and then he kicked it – hard – in the side.

As Matt hopped away, clutching his injured foot, the feeder went _thunka-thunka-thunka-chug-chug-whirrrrrr-hmmmmm_, and all the status lights showed green.

"Sarah?" Jaq asked over the intercom as he tried not laugh at Matt, "is nine showing functional on your end?"

"_It turn on all of a sudden,"_ she confirmed. _"What did you do?"_

"Oh, that was all your brother," Jaq clarified cheerfully as he watched the younger boy give the suddenly obedient feeder a Glare of Death. "Looks like Matt has something of a way with machines."


	17. Prankster

That was... interesting. First an entirely new ship, one that _didn't_ show up in the Yuuzhan Vong's intelligence files, had jumped in system. At the same time the infidel's station (_Wayfarer_, he read, the Tactician having brought him a copy of what information they had on the Aurora Force) had actually shed a portion of itself, a part that looked very much like a "communications array" (blasphemous construct; not at all consecrated in design, like a proper villip). That piece, in a move that greatly surprised Rupaak Kag, had struck the new, clearly allied, arrival. Which suggested to him certain truths about the enemy's capabilities.

And which suggested to him that those truths were about to change. He wanted to sigh in frustration, but could not, for such a prank was the hallmark of Yun-Harla.

At least she was watching.

"Signal to all commanders," he barked. "Stand ready for change in enemy disposition."

No sooner had he spoke than a second array sprung forth from the station.

"My Lord?" the Tactician asked. Kag merely grunted and gestured towards the display.

"Their communications were out when we arrived, Tactician; had they not been, then their new ship would not have collided with the jetsam from the station. I believe they have restored them now, and so we should see- yes, there."

It was more felt, intuited, than seen, but a definite change came over the infidel forces, a change rather like that came over a flight of coralskippers during transition to yammosk control.

"Yes, I see it. Shall we adjust?"

"No," Kag said after a moment's thought. "Continue with the advance as ordered. How long until we are in range of this ship, this... _Imladris_?"

"One-hundred and forty-six seconds. Perhaps less, now, that they are closing in on us with confidence."

"Very well. Are Flights Grychnyr and Thyrask engaged?"

Flights Grychnyr and Thyrask, named for their respective commanders by common accord of all the pilots, were two of the coralskipper squadrons from the _Erounalok_. Of the group he'd brought into the Xenen System, these were two of five squadrons (the other three had no special names, yet; such distinction might yet be earned in this fight) who swore personal fealty to _him_, after the Gods, the Yuuzhan Vong, the Supreme Overlord, and their own Domains. As such he'd seen to it that they were trained to fight, and fight together, without a yammosk to coordinate them. Most warriors of the Yuuzhan Vong, including those pretentious fools in the Praetorite Vong were, in Rupaak Kag's opinion, unduly reliant upon the more spectacular gifts from the Gods, like the yammosk. Not that he disdained those gifts, and thought them not wondrous, but he wished to be able to at preserve his forces, if not press on to victory, should the infidels or competing Domain get lucky – or should Yun-Harla be in another _mood_ – and kill his (hypothetical, at this point) yammosk with a the first salvo.

"Grynchyr has engaged the infidels medium ships, those three "freighters" that are clearly more capable than first suspected. Thyrask moves against the enemy fighters, though he considers moving off to engage their warships."

"He is to maintain engagement of the fighters," Kag ordered sternly. "We will deal with the warships, and will not need the added distraction of infidel fighters. Duurok, Sien'et, and Eshkru will know what to do; _remind _the other squadron commanders of just whose lead they are to follow in this. I was required to bring them with me, and I will not have so-called pilots who would not know an attack vector without a yammosk to hold their hand screw with _my_ warriors.

"But gently so, Tactician, and let us see who can get the point without overt threats. Those who do, may become warriors that I can use. Those who do not, better that they die here, and no longer infect us with their stupidity."

"Of course, my Lord," the Tactician said with a bow, and passed the message along to the villip choir.

Kag settled down to wait, and watch. Another of the infidel's ships, the _Dashan_, and the new ship, moved into formation with the _Imladris_ (such odd words they inflicted on their vessels, though fitting in a way for such foul and lifeless constructs). That would... complicate matters, but not too badly. Even if he had to break off before ranging on the planet, he could ravage the _Imladris_, and damage the other vessels and _Wayfarer_ Station. He would suffer casualties, both to his own sworn retainers and the other warriors foisted upon him, and maybe even his own life, should a hit take _Erounalok_ wrongly.

But such was only death.

While he did not chase death as so many others did, he would not run from it, either.

A warrior's death was but for the glory of the Gods and they Yuuzhan Vong; even if death took him here, his mission would still be a success, for the arrival of the new ship was evidence that he had already forced a redeployment of the infidel forces. No doubt this sector's political leaders would scream for more, more, _more_ ships to come and garrison the sector, for if the Yuuzhan Vong could come once, and lightly, then they could come again, and greatly. Nearby sectors, and systems, would do the same, for even the dumbest beast knows that if a strike can come _there_ then it can also come _here_. His other ships would repeat this act in other sectors, in other parts of the galaxy.

Each ship they would draw off would be one less to face the advance along Vector Prime.

Victory _and_ glory, mayhaps, in one fell swoop.

It was good day for it.

Rupaak Kag bared his teeth in a smile that made his scarred face all the more grotesque, and the range close, close, close, until they were close enough to the _Imladris_ to fire.


	18. Get it Stuck In

Robert understood perfectly why Mark and Janet had pulled out; had he his _own_ kids aboard the _Vendetta_, and had the _Vendetta_ taken the same amount of damage that he saw on the _Stormcrow_, then he would have bugged out quite a while ago. Standing one's ground was all well good, but kids change the equation a bit. Which brought his mind back to his own kids, and he reached out towards them again, checking to see if-

Well.

_That_ wasn't the way the mind of someone hanging around in a shelter felt. Darned if he knew what they were up to; darned if he _wanted_ to know what they were up to, but if they were up to even _ one_ of the options that the emotions he picked up off of Cam brought to his mind, then assuming survival after the next few hours, they were grounded.

Locked-in-basement-fed-through-hole-in-wall grounded.

For life.

Exactly how he would enforce that was a problem that he would have to deal with later. He had plenty enough to ponder through on his plate at the moment, as he opened fire with near-desperate abandon into the steadily thickening cloud of enemy fighters.

Good news was, after a few long moment's hesitation, three-quarters of the remnant of the first group of fighters and one-quarter of the new group had given in to the run-to-ground predator instinct and had pealed off to run down the _Stormcrow_ and _Malady_. Further good news was that the fighter's delay allowed the Wyler's enough lead time to reach Xenen ahead of the fighters.

Bad news was, the rest were swarming over the _Vendetta_. She was holding her own, thanks in no small part to the DeLong family's devotion to the old maxim "there ain't no such thing as a stock freighter", but not even a souped-up YT-2000 was invulnerable. And in her case, there wasn't any opening anymore that would allow a run at the planet.

"Ven," he called over the intercom, "try and get us a breakout, get these guys behind us rather than all around us. Then try to head for the main battle."

"_I don't think they'll appreciate that."_

"I don't care if they appreciate it or not. If we've all gotta get it stuck in, then we might as well do so together. Break out and head for the line, Ven. Right now."

* * *

"They've almost crossed the line," Cam whispered, then turned to Alex. "What do you think, Mr. Grentarii? Another two minutes until that big ship is in range?"

"Less, most likely," Alex answered. "See? They've increased speed, and- what is that?"

"The two ships coming in?"

"No, behind them."

"Behind-"

"_All PDB's, Planetary Control,"_ came a voice, a human and somewhat familiar voice, over the comm panel. _"Incoming. Engage at will."_

Cam felt the blood drain from his head down to his feet. That was a _large_ group of enemy fighters bearing down on the planet, and a calm, strangely detached portion of his mind figured that they'd originally been after the two friendly ships, but had spread out to vector against Shay Memorial and Quis when their pilot's realized where their targets were going.

Force, he didn't know what to _do_-

"Jaq, Matt," he heard someone using his voice – he couldn't be _that_ calm – say, "take the quad turrets. Sarah, Ms. Lance, take the missile launchers. Mr. Grentarii, help me make sure we're networked with PDB 1230 and 0606, and then you and I will run the capital turbolasers."

For some reason, everyone moved in response to his words; their actions left his mind warring between stark naked terror and the single greatest _rush_ he'd felt in his short life. Neither impulse won out, but they averaged out to happy medium that left him with and outward calm and an inward fear that wasn't anywhere near unreasoning.

He and Alex checked the networking; it worked just fine. PDB 0427 would be able to interface, and coordinate fire, with 1230 and 0606 through the Shay Memorial TacNet.

Cam nodded once as Jaq, Matt, Sarah, and Amanda signaled readiness. If there any three other people than Jaq and his brother and sister that Cam would rather have at his back, he didn't know who they were. Amanda Lance he didn't really know, but Sarah seemed to know of her and didn't mind working with her, so that was good enough.

As for Lieutenant Commander Alex Grentarii... he faced the older man, looked him clear in the eye.

It was a face out of legends, out of the stories that his parents and his uncle had told him growing up. A bit of a martinet, they'd said of him, but a good man at your back.

Worked for him.

"All right., y'all," he said as the first enemy fighter entered concussion missile range, conscious of just how much he sounded like both his father and his uncle, "let's get it stuck in. Engage."


	19. Vong Intentions

"So they do have planetary batteries," Rupaak Kag said quietly as the first few bolts of fire reached up towards them from Xenen's surface. The battle went well, maybe even better than he had hoped; while he had clearly achieved a measure of strategic surprise, it was equally clear that he had arrived right in the middle of some sort of local disruption. That had proved very useful, and his ships had managed to press the advance despite the fierce resistance from the infidels.

"Tactician, keep an eye on those batteries. I want your best estimate regarding where they are on the surface and total offensive power."

"Of course, Supreme Commander. Do you wish to engage them as we pass the planet?"

"No," he answered, surprising most of the command crew. Then he gave the Yuuzhan Vong version of a grin and stood up to face them all.

"We will not use that information today, my warriors," he growled, holding up his right hand and commanding the implanted needle-sharp claws to extended. "But later, when the rest of the fleet has caught up with us, we will gather all our forces, and all the information we have on this system and this sector, and then..."

His voice lowered into a cruel hiss.

"And then, my warriors, we will return to this system and harvest it, as one harvests a ripened lambent."

He made a fist, digging the extended claws deep into his palm. The black blood flowed out, tracing garish lines down his forearm.

"This I swear to you."


	20. Almost too Close

For the second time in the last three minutes, Robert threw up. Fortunately this last... emission... was far smaller than previous one; he seemed to be well on his way towards emptying his stomach. Unfortunately, some of the floating chucks from the first time had gotten into his hair.

The _Vendetta_ was dead in space; gravity was down, and he'd never done well in zero-g; communications with the ventral turret, and Talia, were down, but he could still feel her in the Force; and the ship was open to space, evidence by the fact that the emergency force field had shimmered into place just 'behind' his turret.

Not a good position to be in.

He'd been in worse spots, he was sure... but right at the moment he just couldn't think of one.

On the plus side, he could talk directly with Ven, though she couldn't talk to Talia either. Also, the enemy ships that were chasing him had lost interest once the _Vendetta_ started drifting, and had vectored off to rejoin the battle that was getting just a bit too close to the planet.

About the time the first dry heave started the senses he'd been getting from the kids changed from mild combat exhilaration to something rather like annoyance, which quickly segued into 'oh holy freaking poodoo.'

There were also echoes of a fairly impressive gout of fire and accompanying pressure wave.

He felt Talia start counting new gray hairs.

He'd stopped counting his own years ago, when the gray finally outnumbered the brown. Still, not for the first did he wonder if his hair was turning gray because of genetics or because he'd fathered three children, including two sons who liked to poke at things until something happened.

And they were all alive.

Which meant he had to decide whether or not to hug or strangle them when he got back to the surface. Assuming they _did_ get back to the surface, because if something came after the _Vendetta_, or if something else blew up and changed their course-

Yeah. He'd just hug them. Ground them for all eternity, but hug them first.

"Ven," he rasped, his throat sore from all the horking, "are we still- hrmmph..."

"_Still on course for Wayfarer,"_ the AI answered, tactfully ignoring his rather undignified state. _"I _think _they're aware of how badly we're hit, and will have a tractor grapple waiting for us."_

"You _think?_"

"_Communications took worse of hit than I initially though; contact has been... lacking, at best, but I- Wait one."_

He waited. Ven usually had a good reason when she interrupted herself.

"_Hyper contacts, I can't get an exact count. Coming in from sunward."_

"Hawking radiation?"

"_None detected. Probable blackbody radiation from one contact."_

"Black-?"

Robert reached out through Force, passed the brightly burning defenders, past the emptiness of the attacks, towards the new arrivals-

Then he leaned back in his chair and laughed.


	21. Meanwhile

A cool wind brushed upon his face, as the guards brought him out of the earth-bound jail house and into the star-lit predawn air. Aside from the tap-tap-tap of men's feet, the only sounds were the steady beeping issuing forth from his stuncuffs, and the low hum coming from the grounded transport.

It was the speediest trial that Damien Korssetti had ever seen; by remarkable coincidence, it was also the first one he'd ever seen from the defendant's bench. Still, he wasn't very surprised that the court had taken less than a week to decide his fate. For most of that week the prosecutor had simply played back Korssetti's own captured records, and let the smirks and looks of pleasure that crossed Korssetti's face as the records showed a particularly cunning trade, or skillful acquisition. Even though the trial had occurred on Golgan III, considered as the most likely place for him to receive a fair trial, by nature of its independence and the fact that he'd never had business dealings within three light-years of the Golgan star, he didn't even bother defending himself. He opted to act as his own council, and happily confessed to the most brutal abductions, slaughters, and things all the more unspeakably grotesque.

Happily. Proudly.

For in doing such things he'd proven his power over the other meat.

He felt honest pity for the jury who'd convicted him, who'd looked on him in horror and hate. Pity that they did not understand the great truth, that they looked upon the deeds of a great predator and found him guilty.

A sad state, really, that they could not accept the natural order of things and had to resort to passing judgment upon him to satisfy their own illusions. Illusions that sapience made them more than meat, more than food for whatever was stronger than they. Illusions that they actually had worth, and purpose, above that accorded a tender steak.

What did it matter if he tore husbands from wives, parents from children, and sold them each to this master or that mistress; they were but meat, to be consumed for profit. What did it matter if he took the first taste of all the women; they were but meat, to be consumed for pleasure.

What did it matter if a Golgan court sentenced him to death, to serve in the penal mines of the Golgan VIII gas giant and its moons, until the automatic appeal granted him by the law was resolved and his sentence carried out? He, though a great predator, a hunter of men, was too but meat, and had at last met a predator greater than he, and would be consumed.

The natural way of things. The strong feasting upon the weak, predators feasting without mercy and without pity.

In fact, the only thing about the whole process that bothered him was that he was denied access to the whores. He wished to see what it was about them that had led Golgan III's pitiful General to take up their cause and treat them as more than meat. But prisoners didn't receive conjugal visits with whores; not, apparently, by any government policy, but because 'Lady Carlotta' (what a name, for the basest meat of all!) had decreed such, and had the clout to back her decree up.

His thoughts tracked back to her as the guards loaded him up onto the transport. A formidable woman, to have denied him those pleasures here at the last; they'd never met, and likely would not, but he wished that they could. To test himself against such a creature, to consume and be consumed in turn, a game to see which would be obliterated first... just the imagining of such a thing...

He shook off the thought as the guards bound him into a seat. Such a feast would never be, and even if it were, no predator feasts in sight of others.

As he had learned to his detriment, to feast in plain leaves one vulnerable.

* * *

Captain Edward Stratemeyer, CO _Gules_, CO Second Squadron Screening Elements (better than having to juggle all those ponderous capital ships; give him a nimble, light unit any day) set aside his empty tea cup and examined the tactical holo with satisfaction. He had, in his own humble estimation, deployed his forces well to cover the space around Golgan VIII; no small feat, given the sudden and heretofore unexplained nature of the alert.

Not that his forces were of any great count; all he had besides his own _Gules_ was Commander Franklin Dixon's _Or_ and Commander Victor Appleton's _Sable_, each a sister Carrack to his own ship, which gave him a grand total of three light capital ships and fifteen fighters with which to cover Golgan VIII, its moons, and all the orbital and Lagrange infrastructure.

"_-and thankfully the L4.VIII CSP commander is getting jurisdictional on us,"_ Commander Appleton said gratefully over the holocom. _"He's agreed to put his fighters under our command if something happens."_

"Hm. Frank?"

"_The same at L5.VIII, Captain,"_ Commander Dixon said. _"Full cooperation, though I don't think they believe that anything is coming."_

"_I'm still wondering what this alert is all about," _Appleton said inquiringly.

"Commodore Drax didn't say, Victor. All he said was that the General took _Illuminator_ and our own Second Division out to investigate something, and left orders to beef up the system pickets. In honor of our greatness, we drew Golgan VIII."

"_Lucky us."_ Dixon muttered.

Stratemeyer just grinned.

"Look at it this way, Frank: according to L2.VIII station command, there's a prison transport incoming, and Commodore Kincaid had to deploy some of his fighter's for escort duty." He chuckled. "I'd hate to be the poor kid who had to pull _that_ detail."

* * *

"_Why do we always pull these crap details?"_ Lieutenant j.g. Bren Silversun, Charlie Ten,black of hair and grey of eye, a decently handsome man as things go, if slightly built, growled over the com as he settled his X-wing in front of the prison transport.

"We _don't_ always pull crap details, Bren," Lieutenant j.g. Mikale Sunschilde, Charlie Eleven, brown of hair and eye, thought of by many as a bit of a looker, answered exasperatedly as she guided her X-wing to the transport's starboard side. They were on a 'flight' frequency, one shared only between the third flight of ISDII _Freedom's Fire's _Charlie Squadron, so she was reasonably certain that no one else heard them.

And what if they did; it was just grousing, everybody groused

"_It is kind of boring, isn't it?"_ Lieutenant j.g. Cullen Bronzeban, Charlie Twelve, shaved bald with hazel eyes and built like a pre-space tank, added as he settled his X-wing in along the transport's port side.

Mikale tried not to shake her head. Wherever Bren went with an idea, Cullen was soon to follow... and so, admittedly, was she. Despite being on a few weeks senior, Bren had scored highest of the three of them in various leadership and tactical exercises, and was nominally in command of their little tactical trio.

"_Well, maybe we'll get lucky and the Empire will attack or something,"_ Bren said, almost hopefully. Then, quieter, _"I signed on for this to kill Imps, not guard the fracking transports."_

She didn't reply; Bren's utter hatred for the Empire, along with anyone and everyone associated with it still, and about half of those once associated with it, was the thing of rec room legend. To hear him tell it, the GDF should just up and invade the Remnant, devastating each world from orbit and salting the fields, since it was abundantly clear that Coruscant wasn't going to do a damn thing about it.

Any mention of the Gavrisom-Pellaeon treaty accomplished little more than provoking an at least ten-minute rant. Sometimes spittle was involved.

At times, Mikele thought her flight commander, himself only twenty-five to her sparse twenty-three, was just another young hothead, with a lot of fire and indignation to go along with what sense he had.

His 'command' only had the flimsiest of pretexts, and as long as the chain of command remained in place, she didn't have to obey any order that he gave.

But she did anyway.

It was easier just to go along with it.

Besides, Bren's 'fire and indignation' hadn't gotten them into any trouble. Unless you count that one time... but really, a political discussion a bar escalating into a fight could have happened to anybody...

And it wasn't like anyone got killed.

With that thought hovering at the back of her mind, she joined Bren, Cullen, and the transport as they jumped their ships into hyperspace for the short hop to Golgan VIII.

At least it would be _short_ boring duty.


	22. Something New

Leroy Damfage, contractor and Assistant Dockmaster Third Class on Station 4, was bored. There were, after all, only so many ways one could log in an arriving shuttle/transport/ore hauler, or log out a departing shuttle/transport/ore hauler, and Leroy figured he'd pressed the keys for all of them. A computer could have done the job, or perhaps a trained monkey; unfortunately, Personnel had decided that a Real Person needed to be there since a smuggler could out-smart a computer easier than he could a person, and Golgan III didn't have any monkeys to train.

So he pushed the key (the same gorram key every gorram day) to confirm receipt of manifest, and never once had to out-smart anybody, as the minerals and gases mined from Golgan VIII and its moons were so gorram _normal_ that skiffing any would be a waste of any self-respecting smuggler's gorram time.

At least, he often comforted himself, he wasn't a tech writer like his brother! Here, at least, there was a _chance_ that something new would happen.

So, like every other gorram day, he pressed the key to accept the manifest (evacuees, assorted enlisted and junior officers) off the transports from _Wolf's Pride_, and idly looked up from his terminal as they started settling down in the main hanger. And hey, pushing that gorram button meant he'd taken part in an honest-to-whomever Rescue Mission! Maybe he could leverage this... there was that one girl at the bar, after all...

Then the transports opened.

_'Well,'_ a small, oddly calm part of Leroy's brain remarked, _'this is gorram new.'_

* * *

Lagrange point L2.VIII played host to six stations – three material processing and three defense platforms – arranged about the center of the Lagrange point in a widely-spaced Klemperer rosette. The L1.VIII, L4.VIII, and L5.VIII points were populated and guarded in much the same way, though with a higher ratio of processing-to-defensive facilities; L3.VIII, lying as it did clear across the system, played host to a GDF R&D facility and would not matter in this engagement.

The four enemy ships, for that was what they clearly were, jumped in-system 5 kilometers above and practically in the middle of the rosette... and in the middle of fire from Stations 1, 3, and 5. Fire which the many odd gravitic voids issuing from the enemy ships swallowed up.

Grant this of the crews, backend of the system or not, they weren't slow off the mark. For all the good it did them, but they could claim that honor at least.

_Gules_ and the fighters were another story, though not due to lack of skill; they'd vectored towards Station 4 when it vanished under the jamming, and were caught looking the wrong way. In the time it took to recognize the situation and react, the enemy's first salvo savaged the fighters. The second was less effective; training had kicked in for the GDF pilots.

The third was aimed at Station 1.

* * *

"Do we have communications?" Captain Stratemeyer asked as the bridge lights flickered once more and then died.

"I... I think so, Captain," the communications officer answered as the emergency lights took over. "Data only; no audio, no visual."

"Then send to _Or_ and_ Sable_: Attack in progress, enemy unknown. Verify situation at PoR, then execute approach pattern Sierra Romeo.

"Request handshake receipt, Comm. Quickly, please."

"Aye, sir."

Stratemeyer turned back to his own screen and the scrolling damage reports. The enemy, it seemed, had gotten a decent piece of his _Gules_.

He switched over to the battle-stations reports.

They were going to get some back.

* * *

"_Well, at least it isn't boring."_

"_Enough with the bright side, Cullen,"_ Bren snapped back. _"We've jumped into the middle of some Imperial attack-"_

"Imperial?!" Mikele exclaimed incredulously. "Open your eyes, Bren. Imperial ships don't look like that. And those," she continued, referencing the new, smaller unknowns that had just appeared on their CMDs, "are most certainly _not_ TIE Fighters."

"_But who else-"_

"_Does it matter?"_ Cullen added softly.

"_I-"_

"_All ships this net,"_ came a new, female voice, _"this is L2.VIII Control. We are under attack and request immediate assistance. Repeat-"_

"_Transport, Charlie Ten," _Bren said, cutting across the distress signal. _"Status, over."_

"_No trouble yet, Ten," _came the drawling voice of the transport's comm officer. _"Looks like the big caboodle's shaping up over by Stations 1 and 4, so how's about y'all kip on over there and help out? The Cap's gonna cut engines and lie doggo for a bit, 'till this here boondoggle settles down."_

"_Well... roger that, Transport," _Bren said just a bit too enthusiastically (in Mikele's opinion). _"Good luck._

"_Mikele, Cullen, close up. Echelon right, and arm torps._

"_L2.VIII Control, this is Charlie Ten off the _Freedom's Fire_. I've got three X-wings with full loads coming in hot, 5 klicks out by 3 klicks down. Slot us where you want us."_

Control passed the targeting information to Bren's astromech, which passed it along to Mikele and Cullen's. They adjusted course slightly, vectoring towards the indicated ship, and switched over to torpedoes, waiting for sensor lock.

Bren kept up a slow, muttered rant about how he was supposed to be fighting Imps, not a bunch of wackos in giant fire-spitting asteroids.

Mikele looked down and saw that her hands were shaking. Funny how she hadn't felt it.

It was the first time any of them had gone into combat against anyone besides a dumbass pirate in some cobbled-together Ugly...

She wondered how they'd do; certainly they'd scored well enough in the Academy, and they each had a half-score of Ugly kills to their credit. But this seemed a bit more... _real_ than any anti-piracy operation, and while she didn't feel any fear or incipient panic, she couldn't quite get her hands to stop shaking.

Then her targeting reticle flashed yellow, and a tone sounded; and her hands became still as a sword before the draw...


	23. Ominous

The reticle flashed red, the tone sounded. Mikele held a tight weave on her way to the target, dodging what looked like blobs of lava. She held fire, waiting for-

"_And loose!"_ Bren called.

As one, six proton torpedoes streaked towards the target.

As one, the six proton torpedoes vanished in a burst of light and radiation.

"_What the frak- we didn't even _touch _it?!"_ Bren exclaimed. _"What the hell was that?"_

Mikele's droid warbled something at her.

"What are you talking about, Arfor?" she asked, one eye on the translation, the other on her gunsight. "Gravitics as in repuslors?"

Arfor warbled again, and added a derogatory beep for effect.

"What do you mean, 'black holes'? And it's not nice to say that about Cueball."

Cueball was Bren's R2.

Arfor blatted in reply, and Mikele didn't bother to look at the translation. There was bad circuitry between Arfor and Cueball.

"Lead, Eleven," she called. "Arfor reports that the enemy ship is protected by what looks like projected black holes."

"_That would explain the radiation burst," _Cullen interjected.

"_Yeah. We need to-"_

But he didn't say what he thought they needed to do, for all three astromechs let loose shrill warning cries. Mikele glanced at her scanner, and stiffed just a bit more: five unknowns, fighter sized, with those same gravitic point sources, coming in hard and fast from above.

"_Break! Now now now!"_

------

So little love in him that all he had was reserved for his homeworld and system, that's what they said of him. How funny would 'they' find the holo he now stared at; a holo of someone he actually _missed_.

And after only such a short time, too.

"Sir? We have a problem out at Golgan VIII."

Commodore Everett Kincaid, GDFXO, very slowly and precisely shut off the holo and then turned to look at his chief of staff. He was glad she had only seen his back, as with whatever the General might say it would not do at all, at all, for anyone else to get a view of that picture.

"Go ahead, Captain." he said calmly.

"Twenty minutes ago we received word from L2.VIII Control that a Victory-class Star Destroyer named _Wolf's Pride _made an unscheduled jump in-system. She reported heavy damage from unknown hostiles, and requested immediate aid and evacuation. She also brought pursuit warning."

"I saw the alert, Captain. What has happened?"

"Sir, that's the last we heard from L2.VIII. We've picked up scattered transmissions over the battle frequencies, but somethings interfering with long-range transmissions."

"Or else the situation means that Stratemeyer is too busy to contact us," Everett amended. The chief of staff nodded, acknowledging the point. "Golgan VIII is currently at opposition, correct?"

"Yes, sir."

He thought a moment.

"Signal Commodore Drax to maintain a watchful eye. Then inform Captain Tand that we are taking _Kartuiin, Mount Pracyn, _and _Binging Ward_, and heading to relief of Golgan VIII."

"That's nearly half the force General DeLong asked us to put together, sir."

"Duly noted, Captain. But that force is not going anywhere until the General gets to Xenen and calls back, and that will take the better part of another day and a half. Better to use them here than have them sitting around waiting."

------

"We still can't hit them?"

"No, sir," the tactical officer replied just a bit too calmly. "Those gravitics of theirs are eating up everything we fire at them, and our own shields-"

_Gules_ rocked from another particularly nasty hit, and the tac officer shrugged, his point no longer needing to be made.

"Very well," Stratemeyer said, and fell quiet, for there wasn't much left to say. All his earlier hopes for 'getting some back' were proven vain. The alien defensive and offensive systems had proven much more capable than anything he'd expected, even with his own fire supported by the stations and fighters. They _might_ have laid in a hit or two against one of the ships, but they hadn't done any noticeable damage, which meant the sensors were just confu-

"Sir, I have new hyperspace contacts! Five klicks up and dead center, read as two medium heavies and four-six fighters. _Sable_ and _Or_, sir."

"At last." He pressed a comm stud. "Victor? Frank? What in the black took you so long?"

"_Sorry about that,"_ Captain Appleton replied apologetically. _"Sierra Romeo is just a bit time-consuming."_

"Fine. Gentlemen, keep this in mind and pass it on to your squadron leaders: the enemy uses gravitic point sources, basically projected black holes, as shielding. They are very effective on capital ships, slightly less so on the fighter analogs."

"_Noted, Captain,"_ Captain Dixon said. _"Can you still engage?"_

"Quite so," he confirmed, though he noted with no small amusement that his bridge crew didn't look quite so sanguine. But he was a veteran of the Rebellion (once on the Imperial side, actually, as were many of the Old Guard GDF), and figured it was time for them to get used to it. This attack, he knew deep down in his gut, was merely a herald of something far worse.

It _had_ to be; spaceships that look like giant asteroids don't just get out of bed one morning and decide to raid systems, there is generally a plan involved. Usually, the arrival of something unknown and hostile means _bad things_.

"In fact, I recommend concentrating on this one here," he said, pointing out a single enemy ship, the one on upper right of their formation, as measured relative to the Golgan star. "Ignore the rest."

His _Gules _shuddered again.

_'Besides, it isn't like they're not singling _me_ out.'_

------

"Well, somebody finally pushed the button," Corporal Sandulf Tand remark as he strapped on his body armor (looked almost but not entirely unlike stormtrooper armor; wouldn't stop blaster fire, but would help against shrapnel). His Lieutenant looked at him oddly, and the young Marine pointed at the flashing red light on one of the briefing room walls.

Silent alarm from the docking bay.

"Not like we needed it," another Marine remarked as he checked his blaster.

"Can the chatter," the Sergeant barked grimly.

They shut up.

Their platoon was Station 4's primary security force. It was a small platoon, consisting of only two squads (both lead by corporals, of which Tand was one), and the Lieutenant and Sergeant. Officially, the platoon was on Station 4 to help protect against any boardings by pirates. Unofficially, like the other out-system security platoons, it existed to provide a 'mixing' place for young up-and-comers (like Tand, the only member of his family who was both a Marine and _not_ an officer, as he said he wanted to 'earn' his commission; all agreed that he was likely to do so and would mustang up within the next year and a half) to serve under and learn from some of the old hats who had 'been there and done that' (like the Lieutenant and Sergeant, both formerly of the Hellwalkers, and both having seen just a bit too much during the recent campaign against Damien Korssetti).

Of course, Tand had done a good bit of 'going there and doing that' himself, but hey, it was not for a corporal to question the why of Personnel. And it wasn't a bad assignment: the Lieutenant and the Sergeant both had some pretty good stories and were pretty free with advice. He had learned a lot.

Like, for instance, how to maintain security watch when nothing ever ever happens.

Which was why the security platoon saw the aliens clamber off the transport and act in an obviously threatening manner towards the medical personnel.

Rude, that.

"Tand, have they left the hangar yet?"

He looked back over at the security holo.

"No, sir. Still talking dirty to Doc Dressner."

He tried not to notice that the Lieutenant shook a bit.

"Okay, here's what we're gonna do..."


	24. The Wind Reminds You of Who You Are

The transports descended to the ground, bringing within them the walking wounded from _Wayfarer_ and the ships. Cameron, Matt, and Sarah stood to one side of the great crowd, waiting to see if they're parents would come home. The weave of the Force in the Xenen system felt twisted and tangled, now, disrupted by the strange enemy and by all the death and fighting. Also by whatever... scream... it was that had reached them all, however faintly; it came from the Outer Rim, from near to the edge of the galaxy; another wind portending the storm.

Even in concentrated searching, they couldn't get the feel of their parents, and everyone In Charge seemed to have plenty enough to worry about without handling the fears of three kids.

The transports landed, and the wounded disembarked. Cam felt a brief rush of elation as he caught site of his father... which gave way to a heart-clenching fear when he realized that he could not see his mother-

No. There was a perfect explanation for that; there had to be.

They caught sight of each other, and father and children met in the middle of the crowd. Robert hugged each of them in turn; Sarah whom he lifted up and twirled, to her delight; Matt who managed not to groan aloud at his dad being so embarrassingly demonstrative, but though he hugged back would not be lifted; Cam whom he couldn't lift, for they were nearly of height.

"They're keeping your mom on _Wayfarer_ for another day or so," he explained at the question in Cam's eyes. "Just for observation; she got flashed by some kind of radiation on the way in, and the docs want to make sure it won't do anything before they move her."

"But she'll be alright?" Cam couldn't help asking.

"Of course."

His father's certainty settled it. Cam sagged in relief.

"Ven?" Matt asked.

"Her core is still intact, but she'll still need a few weeks' repair work."

He grew stern; Cam swallowed.

"And with that settled, just _what _did you three think you were doing?"

Matt and Sarah looked abashed, but Cam felt suddenly annoyed.

"What you taught us to do!" he said back.

"What _I_ taught-"

"Yes! To take a stand, to not sit back and _wait_ for the teachers to take the bully away!"

"Cam, this wasn't some school yard dispute! This was, is, a war!"

"So?"

"You could've been killed!"

They were shouting; many turned to stare.

"So could you!"

"I"m in my forties!"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

Robert glared at him, and Cam glared back, refusing to yield a centimeter, just as Robert had taught him to do when he thought a cause just. Then Robert's expression gentled (yielding, Cam realized suddenly, as he had also taught them to do when the battle required it), and he grinned, and laughed out loud, and Cam found himself grinning back.

"A point, definitely a point there," Robert said.

His grin faded a bit, and he shook his head.

"Well... did you get any?"

"We got a few good hits in on the ships, and I _know_ we got a least eight of those weird fighters. But I don't know if we can prove it."

"Why not?"

"I think we lost the records when the PDB blew up, so-"

"No, you ddn't," Robert said. Cam looked surprised, and he continued, "your uncle helped design those things, remember? He and Jaq Pellman both came out of Intel; all the telemetry from the PDBs is recorded in at least four locations, only one of which is physically at the battery itself."

"Oh, good. I thought we'd have to ask Mr. Grentarii to back us up."

"Mr. Gren- _Alex_ Grentarii?"

"Oh yeah, you didn't know. Yeah, he's alive again."

Robert looked as if someone had clubbed him upside the head.

------

"Message from the bridge, sir," Aral said quietly. "Reversion in two minutes."

Carlos nodded curtly, and they both returned to studying the tactical plot in silence. It portrayed the Xenen system, showing the orbital positions of each planet and moon and station, as predicted for their arrival time. No ships, though; just a planetary template for their sensors to work against and fill in.

He was as tense as she'd ever seen him; still projecting an air of calm, but all too noticeably watching the clock and the plot and worrying. She understood why, of course; for a long time Xenen had been his home, the Kartuiin Sector his battleground, and the AF his friends and family. So she let him his space and his silence, and trusted that he'd be there if the worse happened and they had to fight.

A chime sounded, and they dropped out of hyperspace. Their's were the first points to show on the plot: one blue light for the _Illuminator_, and three more behind her, arranged in a V, for the VSDII _Ketaris_ and the Dreadnaughts _Olahan Beach_ and _Azure Woods_. The plot continued to update with active ships, stations, and floating derelicts and debris... but all the actives were in the green used to designate AF and New Republic transponder signals.

"General, incoming hail from Xenen," Lieutenant Atkins announced. "It's Admiral Bridger, sir."

Aral smiled as he relaxed at last, and all worry fled from his eyes. She bumped him once with her elbow, just because, and to her surprise and mild delight he grinned and bumped her back.

"Put her through, Tommy," he ordered softly.

"Aye, sir!"

Carlos stepped up to the holocom's pickup, and a holographic image of Indiana Bridger sprang to life before him. She grinned at him.

"_Not that I'm complaining, but you _did_ just give my command staff a bit of a fright."_

"Sorry, Indy," he said, still grinning. "Communications were still down when we jumped out."

"_Exactly. Do I want to know how you knew?"_

He didn't answer for a moment, and seemed to Aral's eyes uncertain how to respond. But that moment passed.

"Let's just say that one of my commo guys was in touch with one of your commo _gals_, and he knew enough to let us know when communications went down. What happened?"

"_Someone chased Ion down and decided to raid Xenen in the process. We're still not sure why, or who."_

"Not Remnant?'

"_No; completely different tech base. Someone else."_

"Do you have telemetry data from the battle?"

"_It's fairly complete, yes. Wanting a copy?"_

"Please. I'd like to study my enemy."

"_We'll send it up as soon as possible."_

"Thanks. Indy... I'm very glad to see you well."

This last he said so quietly that Aral thought no one else was meant to hear it. Admiral Bridger answered something back that she didn't catch at all, and then they were back to discussing the aftermath of the latest battle of Xenen.

"Captain?" Lieutenant Atkins called out quietly, and Aral stepped away from the General and over to the staff communications officer.

"Tommy. How's the girlfriend?"

He blushed.

"She... she's okay, ma'am; she was the one who called up. But... we've got another call incoming."

"Who is it?"

"Commodore Kincaid, ma'am. I... I think something happened back home."


	25. Bug Thud

_Xenen ETA minus 28 hours_

Mikele kept up a steady stream of most unladylike expletives, punctuated by the occasional squeal from Arfor, as she dodged and wove away from the fire of three enemy fighters. At least she assumed those weird rock-things were fighters. They were of size and capability comparable to her X-wing (though a fair bit nimbler, much to her annoyance), anyway. Best to call them fighters and let the Intel boys fuss out the nomenclature.

But first not die. That was key.

Arfor let out a shrill cry, and Mikele barely twisted away from a pair of fighters trying to pincer her; Arfor's cry morphed into a plaintive, almost seasick wail. That pair barely twisted away from crashing into each other. A trio of GDF A-wings from the local garrison slammed into that pair, and for a moment she was free and clear. She realized then that she hadn't fired a shot since that first torpedo volley; no real wonder, that, since the enemy hadn't been in the business of flying in front of her!

Her flight was scattered all to hell and gone, but...

"... and frak it _all_," she finished her muttering, and then keyed the com. "Ten, Twelve, copy, over?"

"_Eleven, Ten,"_ Bren called. _"Coming up on your left."_

She twisted in her seat to look out the cockpit. Sure enough, there was a slightly scorched blue-and-silver X-wing forming up on her.

"Oh, there you are Bren," she said conversationally. "How's Cueball?"

"_He's fine,"_ Bren said shortly; his wave-cap-white R2 unit shook its dome in acknowledgment. _"Where the hell is Cullen?"_

"_Could use a bit of help, over here."_

"Cullen! Where- Arfor, ping that transmission!"

"_Twelve, status?"_ Bren asked.

Arfor flashed a single friendly blip on Mikele's HUD, identifying it as Charlie Twelve.

"_One riding my butt, and I can't shake him off."_

"_Where are you?"_

"_Don't know. HUD's down._"

"_Eleven?"_

"Twenty degrees starboard by fifteen degrees down-pitch. One klick."

"_On me."_

"Right, boss."

She throttled back a bit as he turned and passed in front of her; she fell into formation still to his right but now slightly behind. They dived through the battle, past a burning _Gules_, and at last came in range of Cullen. Smoke and debris trailed from his X-wing, the squadron marks obscured by long scorches, but though his maneuverability was clearly degraded, he somehow still dodged the killing stroke and kept the range open.

She targeted him and checked his shields; holding, but barely.

She shifted target to the enemy fighter, and waited for Bren's order and for the range to close.

They were almost there when one of the enemy's shots pierced through Cullen's weakened shields brushed against his upper starboard engine.

------

The platoon barracks were located near the center of the station, in plane with the hangar bays. High-speed lifts could carry them, in the event a pirate or Imp tried something foolhardy, from the barracks to any one of the hangars or nearly any point in between. The Lieutenant, for this operation, had elected to one of the in between points; an intersection which would allow the platoon to split three ways (the Lieutenant and Sergeant took a third of each squad to form the third group), and take advantage of their access to the security systems to pincer the enemy.

Corporal Tand's squad had drawn the right side of the pincer; the Lieutenant took his group down the middle; Corporal Napatha took the left. Tand, for his part, alternated between leading his squad ("Walk this way," and make sure the boys didn't try to imitate him step for step; they were weird like that) and checking the security feed on his monocle. The enemy had long since left the hangar bay, though they left something attached to one of the computers; it looked like a cross between a heptopus and a giant ball of crap, so Tand didn't look at it too much. Instead he followed the enemy's progress on a tactical display, until-

What the hell?

He tossed his head fractionally to the right, switching from tactical to full video and audio.

"_-alone, you son of a bitch!"_ _the man screamed at the scarred freak who roughly grasped a limp and crying woman by the arms. They were both in bedclothes, clearly from one of the prior crew shifts and probably married or at least cohabiting. The man broke past a group of the freaks, who didn't bother to stop him but instead showed and expression that felt like an eager smile, as if they were about to see a good show. The man launched himself at the enemy, but the enemy caught his with one hand, and held him at arms length while the man flailed and cursed. The enemy growled something in a language that Tand had never heard, and roughly flung the man into the wall. Tand could hear the ribs snap over the audio, and then the enemy backhanded the man in the face, shattering his jaw in a spray of blood-_

"Gods Above and Force Around, what in the- Lieutenant, Tand."

"_Go."_

"Sir, have you been monitoring the visuals from the security feed?"

"_We've stayed on tactical. Why?"_

"Check corridor Delta-Six-Seven, sir."

There came a silence, which Tand took to mean the Lieutenant was checking the security feed.

"_Platoon,"_ the Lieutenant growled in a voice that Tand had never heard before, one full of rage and naked durasteel, _"at the double-quick."_

They broke into a fast trot, each squad now transmitting in the clear; moving fast and coordinating the assault now meant more than radio silence. The timing had to be perfect, as the two flanks hit the enemy first and then the middle when they were distracted at the sides; for that, they had to communicate.

His squad had five turns left when the security feed dissolved into static, and the comm chatter gave way to a high, loud, painful hiss.

"Lieutenant!" he called over the com. "Lieutenant, please respond!"

There was no answer.


	26. Thud Bug

_Xenen eta minus 28 hours_

"_Mikele, open fire!"_

Mikele did so, her weapons dual-linked to strike a balance between fire-on-target and sustainable firing rate, and twin lances of red light shot out from her X-wing toward the enemy fighter. She had to lead it some, as the angles meant that it flew away from her as it closed in on Cullen's crippled fighter. The shots didn't strike the fighter; instead they bent away from it, and vanished in a point some short distance in front of the enemy.

That was frustrating.

Then she realized that Bren wasn't in front of her anymore.

"Arfor, where's Bren? Did someone get him?"

The droid tweeted nervously, something about Bren having rolled and dived away. She muttered a couple of curses, but kept firing at the enemy, noting that her shots seemed to be leading it away from Cullen-

-and then Bren's X-wing came up from below the enemy fighter, and he fired two quad-linked bursts into its belly. It seemed that the enemy's weird shield system was fully distracted by Mikele's fire, as both of his shots struck home and blew the fighter apart.

"Nice shot, Bren!" she called. "Cullen, you still there?"

"_St... .ere," _he answered shakily. _"Took . ... am...t .. .amage. Lost Niven."_

Niven was his astromech.

"I'm sorry. Can you fly?"

"_Thi.. so. Th..k y.. Br.n... ...d ...t."_

"_Just form up and we'll guide you home,"_ Bren answered to whatever Cullen had tried to say. _"We don't leave a comrade behind."_

------

Sandulf Tand kept running down the last few turns, from memory now that he no longer had the map. There wasn't much else to do, without further orders, even as he drew close to the ambush point and sounds of battle began to fill his ears. Someone had gotten there first; he thought it was likely the Lieutenant.

He and his squad rounded the last corner.

The first thing he noticed was that the aliens were big: nearly two meters in height, and large with slabs of powerful muscle and wearing some sort of armor (armor which looked alive, but that was of course preposterous...), and something about them told him that they were far stronger than size alone suggested. They looked... denser, somehow, than a human of similar build would. The second thing were the varied tattoos and scars which covered the enemy's exposed flesh.

The third thing he noticed was his Lieutenant, lying on the floor at the feat of one of the creatures. He raises his E-11 and opened fire.

His shots, and shots from his squadmates, barely scratched the enemy's armor.

The shots did, however, draw the enemy's attention.

They threw what looked like large beetles at him; two hit his blaster and knocked it out of his hand; a third hit him in the chestplate and knocked him over. He quickly regained his footing, just in time to see a pair of the enemy charging his position. He drew his vibroknife and leapt at the one of the attackers, yelling curses and a war-cry. The blade clashed against its armor, shorting out the vibration mechanism. He pulled back, feinted a thrust, then sought to slash as the enemy's exposed face-

-but it caught the naked blade in its hand, ignoring the black blood that flowed down the hilt. It pulled the blade away from him with contemptuous ease, and then gave him a sharp backhanded blow to the head.

He fell, stunned, next to his Lieutenant.

Some part of him tried to move, but he couldn't bring himself to do so. The ceiling was too interesting to watch, the way the lights faded to dark and light again, along with the unpleasantly loud noises. He wished all the yelling and thumping would stop.

He also wished he had a camera with him; Dad, at least, would think the lights were cool, certainly way better than anything they had on the _Freedom's Fire_. Why, he could show the video the next time they all had leave together.

Dad would love it.

Then someone picked him up and slung him over a large and strong shoulder; he started to protest that he wanted to watch the lights more, but his mouth wouldn't work either. He just went along with it, and wondered why in hell Dad was there carrying him the corridors, rather than on the _Fire's_ bridge. But hey, that meant Dad saw the lights too. Sandulf hoped he thought they were cool; though if he did, why wasn't he talking about them?

Why was he wearing strange armor, instead of his uniform; armor which looked like something alive rather than something off a production line?

Why was he muttering something in a language besides Basic?

And why was Dad _carrying_ him towards the hangar bay?

He could walk on his own, dammit.

He wasn't a _kid_ a anymore.


	27. Dispersed Like Smoke

_Xenen ETA minus 26 hours_

"Commodore, we've arrived at L2.VIII."

Everett didn't even nod. They had taken too long, trying to get the Hellwalkers up off of Golgan III and to the ships. Which meant that they had arrived far too late to affect the outcome of the battle, for the enemy had already left.

"Tactical," he said, "any live friendlies?"

"None yet, Commodore," the tac officer answered. "Mostly rescue beacons, not active emissions- wait. I have active signals from three X-wings hovering near Station Five: IFF identifies them as part of Charlie Squadron."

"_Silversun's flight,"_ Captain Pilo Tand said from the bridge. _"They were escorting a prison ship."_

"See if you can get a hold of them, Captain," Everett ordered, then turned back to the tac officer. "Lieutenant, is there anything else?"

"_Gules_, _Or_, and _Sable_ arefloating free, sir. _Or_ and _Sable_ are broadcasting SOS; _Gules_ isn't broadcasting at all. Same with the prison transport. Silversun's three are the only active fighters. Most of the stations look savaged to one degree or another, but-"

He paused and stole a glance at the chief of staff. Everett cleared his throat and managed to keep from scowling.

"But what, Lieutenant?"

"Sir, it's Station Four. She's undamaged, and isn't broadcasting. At all."

------

"Kinda spooky how quiet it is, ain't it sir?"

"Quiet, Slaryn?" Johnny Playbird answered the corporal. "What with the pilot hailing the station every five minutes?"

"Just that they ain't answering back, sir. Usually the other part of the call talks as well."

"'Bout like when I call your mother, Corp?" someone called from the back of the shuttle.

"Frak you." Slaryn replied, giving the other corporal the finger. The rest of the platoon laughed.

"Oh, you _wish_."

They laughed harder. Johnny let them, but didn't join in; in fact, he wished he hadn't been so flippant. Lieutenant Rasczak was an old friend of his, they'd come up through OCS together and the lack of communication worried him. Best, though, to let the men work off steam _before_ they hit whatever lurked in the station.

Gods, but if it was like hitting another slaver ship...

He shook his head. Best not to worry about that; best to keep his mind on the mission. Colonel Herclayn had divided his three companies amongst Station Four's three docking bays. His company had drawn the third bay and surrounding areas, and his company commander had assigned his platoon to sweep one level above the hangar and then rendezvous with the rest of the company at corridor Delta Six-Seven.

It would be bad enough without projecting old nightmares.

Even so, this _couldn't_ be as bad as that one slave transport, where they had breached the "cargo hold" just before the guards started-

He shook his head again. Not matter what his Dad said, there couldn't be _anything_ any more hellish than the inside of a slaver ship.

"_Five minutes to dock,"_ the pilot announced.

------

The flag bridge was filled with the noise of reports from the SAR flights and rescue teams.

One communications officer, a – very – young Ensign, took down a text-only report from Colonel Jaryn Herclayn, CO of the Hellwalkers. He glanced at the report (for while it was marked ATTN: CMODR KINCAID, CAPT TAND, it wasn't marked EYES ONLY), gulped once, and took the unusual step of requesting confirmation.

Even more unusually, he _received_ confirmation, and quite promptly.

He downloaded the report to a datapad, suddenly feeling much older, then got up and carried it to Everett. His face was neutral and gave away nothing; but his hands shook like a tortured spider. Everett took the datapad from him, giving nothing by way of comfort or contempt.

"The report from Colonel Herclayn, sir," the Ensign said quietly.

"Was it copied to Captain Tand?"

"_It was," _Captain Tand replied; Everett hadn't even noticed the holocom activate, but he nodded slightly.

"We will take it from here, Ensign. Return to your station."

"Aye, sir."

Everett glanced once at Captain Tand's holo, then he started to read the report.

Captain Tand obviously did the same, because Everett shortly heard him utter a curse that made 'frak' sound like something appropriate to a preschool class.

Everett looked up; Captain Tand was pale, and shaking even worse than the Ensign had been.

"_My- my youngest was a- a Corporal, in the security force. They- they didn't-"_

"No," Everett said flatly.

"_Maybe they missed-"_

"No. They did not. See to your ship, Captain."

For a moment Captain Tand looked to say something angry, then nodded curtly and signed off. In deference to the circumstances, Everett decided not to mention it.

------

Johnny dropped to one knee, there in corridor Delta Six-Seven. He'd seen something there, lying by one of the walls. He reached out with a shaking hand and scooped it up.

It was a single, brass Lieutenant's insignia, scratched from upper right corner to the middled of the left side, and warped on the bottom, as if it had passed through fire. The other of the pair, Johnny knew, had looked even worse.

Rasczak had treasured those insignia; they had been his brother's before his, and had earned those marks at Kartuiin.

That insignia was the only sign he'd seen that the station's crew had not simply vanished off the face of the galaxy.

He closed his fist around the insignia, and touched that hand to his mouth. Then he stood; he would mourn his friend later. For now he could see Captain Wanring, his company commander, approaching.

"It's the same all over," she told the gathered platoons. "No blood, no bodies, just the occasional disturbed sheet or piece of debris. Everyone's gone."

"Do we know who did it?" Gunny Occe asked.

"The Colonel," she said slowly and carefully, "found a message in the command center. The attacker said that he worked for a race called the 'Yuuzhan Vong'."

"And he gave his name," she looked right at Johnny, "as Alexander Kerensky."


	28. Interlude I

"Intel briefing, kid?"

"I think so, Tee-Dee," Aral whispered as Tara sat down next to her. "We've been put on Tag Rendar's distro list, last I heard, so we should be getting the NRI take again."

"'Bout damned time," Tara grumped. "Fraking Coruscant..."

Aral smiled thinly as Tara continued to quietly cuss out the Fey'lya administration. Relations between the New Republic and Golgan III had been... strained... ever since Golgan III withdrew their petition for membership in the wake of the Caamas Document Crisis. The tension never broke out into outright hostility, but it was certainly there... and showed itself most specifically in how the intelligence feed from NRI had dried up once General DeLong's last contacts retired.

That strain was also, she was absolutely certain, responsible for the estrangement between the General and his sister. But that was a problem not even a Chief of Staff could solve.

"-himself," Tara finished, though Aral had missed what exactly whomever it was could do to himself. "At least we're talking again, even if in a roundabout way and one needing another war."

Aral nodded.

"Well, it did take those Star Destroyers at Bothawui to wake everybody up."

"Enough to _mostly_ wake everybody up," Tara said. "There's still enough factionalist _shaavit_ getting tossed around, and- wait. Drax is _already_ here? What the hell?"

"You just noticed? That's how you know it's an intelligence briefing: Commodore Drax isn't just on time, he's _early_. But still. You didn't notice?"

"He blends in!"

"He's a _Devaronian_."

"Shut up."

Aral grinned as Tara glowered in Commodore Drax's general direction, as if it was the jovial Devaronian's fault that she hadn't noticed him. The horns were enough of a giveaway, but given how Drax also wore glasses, he presented a memorable appearance. Then there was the name; just Drax. No one knew if it was a given name, a surname, or a pseudonym, and if anyone ever asked if he had any more name, Drax just smiled winningly and turned the conversation to recipes for topato salad.

Many a cook had taken advantage of this.

"I'm surprised he didn't have his fraking pants catch on fire again," Tara growled. "Why the general doesn't get on his case..."

"I think he's just impressed that Commodore Drax actually goes to the trouble to make his reasons for being late look real. Someone committed enough to set their own pants on fire just to get out of a meeting has to be good for something."

"Frak that. I'll set my flipping _socks_ on fire, in the _Sound's_ flag bridge. See how the lazy bastard like _that_..."

"That just doesn't have the same effect, Tee-Dee," Aral said solemly. "And you have to admit, he's never late for Squadron or Intel work."

Tara grumbled something that Aral took to be a charitable acknowledgment.

At last, though, the briefing room began to fill up. Eric came over to join them, and so, almost surprisingly, did Everett. Most of the usual crew was there: the Fleet and Squadron staff officers, and most of the ship Captains, including Captain Stratemeyer, recently decanted from a bacta tank, and Captain Pilo Tand, still looking a bit shell-shocked. Captain Tand came in, oddly enough, with his wife, Commander Kye Tand, who as XO of the _Ketaris_ really wasn't supposed to be there. However, no one – save maybe Everett, the dear fool, and he kept his mouth shut – would dare to say anything about it. Not given what they all suspected this meeting was about.

At last General DeLong arrived. Aral came to her feet.

"General on deck!" she announced, and everyone made to stand.

"As you were," he said quickly, waving them back into their seats. "I'll keep this brief," he continued once he took his own seat. "The good news, at least for you science fiction buffs, is that we've finally made contact with an extragalactic civilization. The bad news is that they want to kill us all.

"Commdore Drax, if you would."

"Thank you, General," Commodore Drax said, standing. He pushed his glasses up his nose. He touched a control to dim the lights, then touched another to bring up a to-scale holo of the galaxy.

"We have confirmed, now, the information left to us by 'Deimos'. The enemy calls themselves the Yuuzhan Vong.

"Two weeks ago, Yuuzhan Vong forces struck here, in the Golgan System, and near simultaneously in the Xenen system." As he spoke, the relevant stars were highlighted a bright scarlet. "Also, as we have now learned, the Outer Rim systems of Sernpidal, Belkadan, Dubrillion/Destrillion, and Helska were attacked."

Aral looked at the highlighted stars and frowned. She'd heard of Lando Calrissian's latest venture at Dubrillion, but the other systems were complete unknowns.

He continued with a summary of those events. Drax spoke of Belkadan and the lost ExGal outpost; of the deeds of the infiltrator Yomin Carr (somehow, for some strange reason, that name seemed to trigger recognition in the General's eyes); and of the survivor, Danni Quee. He spoke of strange happenings at Helska, and the surrounding space. He told of the events at Serpindal-

"Wait, what!?" Aral blurted out. "They killed _Chewbacca_?"

She slammed a hand down on the table in front of her, and looked about as fierce as anyone had ever seen.

"Oh, it's _on_, bitch," she exlaimed, and then turned bright red a moment later once she' realized what she'd said. She, after all, was one of the few people who could make General DeLong sound like a potty mouth.

"Hardly appropriate, Captain Contassia," Drax said with a thin smile. "To the best of our knowledge, the Yuuzhan Vong are not a matriarchy. We are not even certain if they sex along the same lines as most species in this galaxy; Ms. Quee, thankfully, did not learn whether or not the Yuuzhan Vong have analogous gonads."

Tara snorted. Drax ignored her, and finished with a summary of the last battle of Helska.

"As you can tell, we have little information to go on at this time," he finished. "We have but the one witness to what these Yuuzhan Vong _are_, and a single captured fighter – a coralskipper. Which brings us to the analysis.

"The Yuuzhan Vong do not build their ships; they _grow_ them. This appears to have religious dimesions, in line with their belief that machines are blasphemous, though whether the biotech or the religious impetous came first is beyond the scope of our data. We can project, then, that this preference for a creature over a machine extends to nearly all aspects of Yuuzhan society; for example, they likely wear living clothes.

"On military side, the primary thrust of the invasion is occurring through the Belkada-Helska-Dubrillion vector. The later world and its twin are currently under a state of siege, and are not expected to hold out much longer. The attack against Xenen, for instance, we believe to be the work of skirmishers, 'raiding parties' sent out to harry us and force a redeployment of New Republic military assets. Unfortunately, it seems to be working; three 'squadrons' of Yuuzhan Vong vessels, including the one that hit Xenen – which, as an aside, I do not believe had a_ yammosk_, a war coordinatorhave raided five systems all up and down the Shermanch Run, from Xenen all the way down to Kenne and Savannsea. Several NR battlegroups have been deployed to those systems to guard against further attack."

"And our role in this, sir?" one of the Captains asked.

"For the moment, that is still under discussion," General DeLong answered instead. "For the moment, we can expect an influx of refugees as inhabited systems fall.

"And believe me, those systems will fall. The Republic managed to blunt the Yuuzhan Vong spearhead, but at murderous cost, _and_ they achieved complete strategic surprise in the process. The Senate is running confused, half convinced that this is something Princess Leia cooked up to establish a Jedi Hegemony, or something."

"Excuse me, sir, but What. The. _Frak_," Tara said. "We're talking _Leia Organa Solo _here, right?"

"The same."

"Frak them, sir. 'Jedi Hegemony' my left ovary."

"Carefully, Tara d'Avignon," General DeLong said quietly. "The cost will be murderously high, but the Senate will come through before it damns us all."

"Sir?"

"They're not stupid, Tara. They love power, and being _in_ power, and soon enough even _Pwoe_ will realize that one can't effectively rule the dead and the damned. Then they'll get their act together and unleash the hounds."

"Good," Captain Tand said aloud. Several others muttered in agreement.

"Be careful of that too, Pilo, and hope we don't damn ourselves in the process... because whatever we hope, whatever we _dream_-" there was something behind that word, Aral could tell "-it might just come to that. Commodore Drax?"

"Yes sir," the Devaronian said, sounding very uncomfortable. He pushed his glasses up his nose again. "The testimony of Danni Quee has confirmed the messaged left by 'Deimos': the Yuuzhan Vong are religious fanatics, who believe that this galaxy has been granted to them by the gods, and that we, for our unbelief and dalliances with machines, are condemned to slavery or death, unless we bend knee and acknowledge the supremacy of their gods."

Tara bristled slightly. Drax noticed.

"I said religious _fanatics_, Commodore d'Avignon," he said, not unkindly. He, as a fairly committed atheist, and she, as one of the more deeply religious people Aral had ever met and a determined monotheist (equal emphasis on 'mono' and 'theist'), had had that discussion many times before. "Not religious_ people. _We have had discussions about that before, but you and I both know the difference: the religious _person_ justifies his actions based off the teachings of the religion, and what they believe to be a divinely inspired moral code."

"While the fraking _fanatic_," Tara finished, "justifies her actions by _saying_ that they're done in 'the Name of God', never mind if those actions go against everything the religion teaches.

"So which one are we facing? The fanatics, or the religious?"

"That's the big question, Tara," General DeLong said, motioning for Drax to sit back down and taking control of the meeting. "One which we can't answer until we get hold of whatever the Vong use for scriptures and see what their religion teaches. I _hope_ it's the Fanatic: someone who's zeal and self-righteousness outweighs their ability to reason through their own scriptures and act accordingly. Because if it is the Fanatic, then we might be able to co-opt someone within Yuuzhan Vong society who doesn't like the Fanatic and who can set his species back on whatever they call the 'straight and narrow'.

"Unless what we're facing is the Religious, at which point this... xenocidal fervor _is_ the gods-ordained 'straight-and-narrow.' If that's the case, then I think y'all can all see how big a problem that would be."

"If God orders you to do something," Tara said, nodding, "then why the hell should you listed to someone who says otherwise?"

"Precisely. Those of y'all who pray, pray it's the fanatic. Those of y'all who don't... well, I'm a deist, but even I'll say now might be a good time to start."

Even Drax nodded.

"This is going to be bad, isn't it sir?" Aral asked quietly.

"We don't have any idea, Aral," he answered just as quietly. "I mean that. This is- human history is riddled with crusades, and holy wars, and they _all_ turn out nasty, because like Tara said, the participants believe they have the approval of _god_ in _whatever_ they do. This war, this invasion – unless we get a miracle and these Yuuzhan Vong turn out to be a flash-in-the-pan force with delusions of grandeur – will redefine _horror_. We can't even _imagine_ what is going to happen.

"Which is why need to be ready for anything. Full copies of Commodore Drax's presentation, as well as the raw data and all analyses are being downloaded to your padds. Everett, Drax, get with your Captains. Start gaming out scenarios for escorting refugee convoys, counter-raids up and down the Shermanch and all points beyond; anything you can think of. We're also in touch with In- Admiral Bridger's staff and Xenen, so I want us strategizing for joint operations with the AF. Tara, get in touch with Intel and Bio; put together what information we have on Vong biotech, and see what we can work up by way of counters. Take a look at something called a 'neutron bomb', then think about how those gravity voids worked and see if you have the same idea I did.

"Any questions?"

"Just one, sir," Pilo Tand, and stood to his feet. "Has there been any word, any word at all, about the crew taken from L2.VIII, Station 4?"

"I am sorry, Pilo," the General said softly but firmly. "We have heard nothing from Kerensky since he left the system. We and the AF both have scouting parties out along we think was his escape vector, but so far we've found nothing, and he's gone to ground."

"I had just hoped, sir. I-," Pilo stopped, then finished in a small voice, "dammit, my little boy..."

Aral's heart went out to him. The problem was that it wasn't a clean kill; no remains, on the barest sign of struggle. Corporal Sandulf Tand, his platoon, and everyone else on that station were there one day and then... nothing. Just vanished into thin air, as if they'd never even _been_. The uncertainty of it all had to be eating at him and Kye both.

"I wish I could promise you something, Pilo," the General continued. "But I can't, except more of the same. Are you and Kye here?"

"Yes sir," Pilo answered. "We're here, to the end."

"Good."

"One more question, sir."

"Go ahead, Pilo."

"Has the government decided how to respond to the ultimatum, sir?"

"Well," the General said with a grin, "they didn't take my first suggestion, which was to send him a video of me saying 'Bite me!' and giving him the finger. One third like it, one third felt it lacked 'oomph' and 'gravitas', and another third felt that taking such a confrontational line _right now_ might not be the choice."

"After-!"

"I said _right now_, Captain. We are in a _very_ precarious situation here; we're just single planet, with a small self-defense force, and we need to play it _very_ carefully until we know for certain what the Vong are gonna do and which was Coruscant is gonna jump.

"Until then, ladies and gentlemen, you have your orders. Dismissed."


	29. Threads I

Her lightsaber lay resting upon a mat, and the training hall was filled with muffled cries as she ran through a kata.

Talia had changed her clothes since the old days. When she'd been an assassin for her brother – days that were barely as far behind her as Cameron was old, but they felt so much further away, and so much closer, than that – she'd favored black leather of the skintight variety. It allowed an acceptable range of motion, and given that the majority of her targets had been men, the ability to show off a curve here and there had certain tactical benefits as well. It was all she knew: trained as a Mistryl by her mother, made to forget Emberlene by her father, and living only to serve the Empire through the will of her brother.

Until the one night she pinned a man with a crimson double-bladed lightsaber to the wall... and he told her that she could be more than her brother's personal zinji needle. And proved it, days later, when he walked into a trap on her behalf.

A lot changed that day, though it took a hard, painful while for those changes to sink in. But sink in they did, and after Kartuiin...

Well. A wedding, a _son_, and then _twins_... and Talia Variner, now Talia DeLong, didn't know of a time when she'd been happier.

She traded in the leather for 'simple' cloth: still black, waterproofed, stainproofed, and not at all skintight. Though Robert claimed the flowing effect it had when she moved was very becoming.

It also offered a much improved range of movement over the leathers, which proved helpful when she received her ring and learned how to use a lightsaber. Her blade was the polar opposite of her husband's: it was a short blade, which issued from a smaller hilt, like the one Rachel had once used in her off-hand. It was a blade made for finesse work, the lightsaber variant of an assassin's knife.

To judge by Master Skywalker's encounter on Belkadan, such finesse would be required in the days to come.

To that end the training hall was often filled with the sound of her blade humming through the air; often cutting through nothing save air, but just as clashing against her husband's blade, his lightsaber making a passable stand-in for a Yuuzhan Vong's amphistaff.

The last move in the kata brought her into a crouch next to her lightsaber. She plucked it up in the space of an eyeblink, and, eyes closed, turned towards an unseen enemy, igniting the lightsaber as she swung in a trick she'd learned from Carlos.

The distinctive sound of clashed blades greeted her. She opened her eyes and saw Robert standing there, grinning, his saber blocking hers.

"Nice swing."

She glared at him.

"I thought you had a meeting."

They stepped away from each other and deactived their lightsabers.

"I did. It was rescheduled."

"Why?"

He tossed her a datapad.

"Seems Kerensky's daughter just dropped in out of hyperspace, and brought what reads like word of something fairly interesting. So the meeting's now in three hours, for all Jedi, command staff, and anyone who's curious. Want to come?"

"What about the kids?"

"Actually, I was, um, thinking about bringing them along."

"You _did_ hear what happened to Asya Wyler, right?"

"That... that's why I want to bring them along, Tal. If these Yuuzhan Vong will pluck a kid off a ship just because they_ can_..."

Happier than she'd ever been? Oh, yes. But because of the source of her happiness – Robert smiling and looking at her that way, Cam taking over the kitchen, Matt being a rascal, Sarah being girly – she was also more afraid – Robert staring at a wall and lost in a resurgent ghost, Cam with a really bad allergic reaction and oh please oh please get him to the hospital he's swelling, Sarah with something stuck in her throat and oh God it won't come out, Matt falling off the piano and breaking his arm and she'd never heard anyone cry like that before – than she'd ever been in her life.

And now fracking scar-faced aliens who came in a grabbed little girls off of starships.

But maybe it was better this way; at least with the Yuuzhan Vong, when compared to allergies or choking or broken arms, she had a target. Something she could _hunt_ and _kill_ if they hurt her babies.

Abruptly she dropped down cross legged onto the mat.

Robert knelted in front of her and touched her cheek. She took his hand and pressed it against her face. They said nothing, and didn't have to; he was her angel, and she was his, precisely because they knew – intimately – each other's joy, and each other's demons.

Idly, she wondered which of those – the joy, or the demon – the Vong would try to kill... and which they would bring out to the fore.

An image came to mind, of one of those scared 'warriors' dragging away Matt and Sarah, and she feared she knew the answer.

---

"You didn't answer my question."

"I thought I answered it when I kicked your butt, Cam."

"Wrong question, Jaq, and this bout doesn't count. You cheated. Again."

"Since when do you believe in fighting fair?" Jaq responded, his indigo eyes flashing in mock annoyance.

"Fighting, no," Cam answered, waving his lightsaber hilt at Jaq. "Heck, when fighting, I don't care if you fight dirty or just throw dirt. But in _practice_..."

"I thought the whole point of practice was to _practice_ _how_ we fight."

"Shut up. And you still haven't answered my first question."

"I already told you: the Intel guys wanted to know how I got us into the PDB, so I pointed them towards a few security holes I found when we were running the place. Made more sense than trying to explain something I don't understand."

"Okay. Correction. You didn't answer my _second_ question, which before you misremember it, was about what your intentions are towards my sister."

Jaq paused as they stepped out of the woods; they prefered to practice lightsaber combat out of doors, rather than in one of the training halls.

He noted, idly, that they were close to the wrecked crater that had been PDB 0427.

"I don't _have_ any intentions towards Sarah, Cam. That's what I keep trying to tell you."

They looked out towards the crater.

"Yeah, but I think she's got intentions towards you, buddy. She's got that look again."

"Well, if she's running around in a daze, maybe you should put padding up in your house just in case she runs into things."

"That's another thing: _don't_ say anything like that around her. Remember the guy from last year?"

"Oh. The one who tossed her note on the ground in front of her and everybody? Didn't Matt beat him up?"

"Yep," Cam said with a grin. "I tried to stop him, but golly, I was just a bit too late, you know? And I'd hate to repeat that-"

"I have no designs on your sister, Cam. I promise. I won't do anything but let it die, alright?"

"Alright."

They stared at the ruins for awhile.

"She is cute, though."

"Oh, hell."

---

"Whut in the ruddy-" one the rough looking smugglers said when the cloaked man sat down at their table. "Oy, this here's a private table, so git."

"Do you know what separates man from animals?" the cloaked figure asked. "Both hunt, and feed, to satiate their hungers. The stronger devours the weaker.

"The difference is that man domesticates the lower predator for his own use. The stronger rules over the weaker."

"We thought you was dead-"

"When meat is made an offer by higher meat, it does not refuse," Damien Korssetti replied. "The hour of Man, and Bothan, and Twi'lek, and Hutt, and all the other native meat is at an end. We will become food for Yuuzhan Vong, or their dogs.

"I am a hunting dog of Deimos. In time, we will chose the game for his table."


	30. Threads II

_Helen System, five systems southward of the Kartuiin sector, along the Shermanch Run._

Captain Rachel DeLong, Commander, Air Group, MC90 _Waverider_, flag vessel of TF-87, New Republic Eighth Fleet, shut down her fighter's engines and came to a floating rest, after completing a third patrol loop.

Confound it, that skip _had _to be somewhere above her!

Her ship hung upside down, relative to the north pole of Helen's magnetosphere. Not, mind, that she was close enough to that planet for it's magnetosphere to have any particular effect on her instruments. It was merely a convenient point of reference, to let her know where her head was in relation to everything else.

Admittedly the asteroid field some two kilometers "above" her transparisteel canopy could have served as such a reference point. Alas, the asteroids themselves were so uniform as to be useless. One looked very much like another, save for one asteroid in particular.

That asteroid was the object of her hunt. A single enemy craft, a coralskipper, reported left behind after the Yuuzhan Vong raid three local days prior. Naturally she, and two flights of E-wings from _Waverider's_ Crest Squadron, were tasked with finding it.

Needle, meet haystack. Haystack, needle. May you have interesting children.

She sighed and checked her chrono: _Waverider_ had been in-system for twelve hours, and she in-cockpit for seven of those. Ah, the life and glamour of a New Republic Defense Force CAG!

At times she missed the old days, when she could have floated above an asteroid field, eyes closed, looking down through naught but the Force. The old days, when she was a pilot not in the chain of command, who flew with the old _Dashan's _Red Squadron. The old days, when she flew whatever fighter came her way, from an A-wing to a captured TIE Interceptor, and painted it black.

She still got away with painting her fighter black: CAG-hood did have some perks. And hey, being a NRDF _Captain_ certainly beat her pre-Kartuiin status as the "strange kid we keep on the rosters because, hey, we've got to do _something_ with her and the rest of the squadron doesn't mind". On the other hand, she had less selection in terms of what she flew: CAG's craft was an E-wing, no matter what they came across. Not that she complained about being "forced" to fly FreiTek's little bundle of high-powered starfighter glory. She just liked options, is all.

As for the Force... well, she hadn't touched _that_ since just shortly after the Battle of Kartuiin, when Robert and Talia got hitched. She'd surrendered her ring, then, as required, and had found it considerably... easier than she'd feared. Not that it was a puppies-and-kittens sort of event, not at all. But it had been easier, and over time, she'd come to realize that she didn't really miss it.

Flying without the Force was more fun. Greater challenge; therefore, greater reward. It simply felt... better, to complete a mission (heck, just to complete OCS!) on her own, without a mysterious energy field and/or cellular symbiotes giving her an advantage in a fighter duel. It was her skill alone which determined the day, and since she still lived and had a pretty good record about _not _getting a ship shot out from under her, she'd obviously turned in a very skilled pilot indeed.

Also, her Force-blindness really annoyed Vice Admiral Kenneth Burdett, TF-87's commanding officer. That made her happy, for a vast assortment of reasons. He himself was Force-sensitive, as she'd discovered during a somewhat heated moment at the Second Battle of Xenen, with a talent for telepathy, though untrained. His naval career made Jedi training impractical, and his beginning talent level – in all things not telepathy – was such that a visit to Skywalker's Praxeum was... impractical. Corran Horn, he was not.

But, of course, Kenneth was some twenty kilometers away, on the _Waverider_. And even if she could still feel the Force, it wouldn't help matters during a Vong hunt.

She checked her sensors and sighed again.

"Dee," she said, addressing R7-D6, her astromech unit, "are you sure we're not picking up anything?"

The droid warbled a reply.

"No, I realize that you would've alerted me if we did. I just have to ask. Process, you know."

The droid warbled something about what she could do with the process.

"I don't have one of those, Dee. And where did you learn to talk like that?"

Dee answered. Rachel winced.

"Fine. Next time I won't ask. Listen... toss the raw take from sensors up on my CMD. I want to have a look at it."

Dee's reply sounded very hurt, but the R7 flashed the data anyway. Five minutes into the feed, she had it.

"There! Hawking radiation, one point-source. Dee, how did you miss this?"

Warble.

"What do you mean, you weren't looking for it!? I showed you the data my brother sent!"

A strident whirr. Rachel sighed.

"Yes, I know Robert isn't an approved NRI or Naval Intelligence source. I swear, you're just as bad as Ke- the Admiral about that. Just – oh, never mind. Lock on to that point source and give me a course."

A protesting noise.

"Now, Dee."

The droid raised no further protests, and dutifully projected a course on her CMD. Much to it's surprise, she didn't follow that course precisely. Rather, she flew a course several degrees off of the straight line, which would carry her in the general direction of the suspected coralskipper, but not in such a way that it looked like she knew where it was. She flew along at 2/3 powers: not fast enough for an intercept, and not slow enough for full maneuverability. Just a nice, leisurely stroll through the asteroid field.

The Vong pilot (she was certain enough of it's identity to call it that, and not "Sierra 1" or somesuch) was ballsy, she had to credit him for that; he never once changed his power signature or moved during her approach, save for the random tumble he'd adopted to blend in with the asteroids. She passed within one point six-seven kilometers of the skip, and still the enemy pilot didn't react.

Balls of bloody durasteel. She had to grin at the thought, given how the enemy pilot would consider _any _part of him, perhaps especially whatever his species used for male gonads, being compared to durasteel as a high insult, not to mention extreme blasphemy.

Then she stopped smiling, cut engine power to 1/3, swung about and snap-shotted a proton torpedo at the skip. Which promptly stopped spinning and swatted aside the torpedo with its dovin basal. Rachel punched the throttle up to full, then engaged the SLAM, and shot past the skip before it could engage with its lava-gun.

The skip gave chase.

All according to plan.

"Crest One, CAG," Rachel commed. "Mynok problem. Ready a back-scratch."

The other pilot answered with a click. Rachel shut down the SLAM: she'd need it later, and she didn't want to lose the skip just now. Also, the SLAM had a bad habit of cutting down on her turn rate, and given the blobs of lava flying perilously close past her cockpit, she needed all the degrees of turn she could get.

For five minutes she dodged away from the skip's fire and around the floating asteroids. By the time Rachel reached the turn point, her shields were down to maybe seven percent, multiple scorch marks scored her hull, poor Dee was a nervous wreck, and she mostly likely had stress fractures in her right hand. On the plus side she hadn't died, and the engines still worked.

She reached the turn point and pitched "up" hard, activating the SLAM at the same time. Even with the compensator at ninety, the acceleration from that maneuver pushed her hard into her couch.

She felt the turn slow; the superheated exhaust from the SLAM was eating through the vectored-thrust nozzles.

But she completed the turn, and rocketed straight "up" through the asteroid field, the skip right behind her and holding fast to her tail. She passed the "top" edge of the field, and then so did the skip-

-and then the skip was no more, as it ran straight into and was torn apart by the crossed fire of six E-wings, the two flights from Crest Squadron, whom Rachel's back-scratch request had ordered there.

"Crest One, CAG," Rachel commed, her voice under control. "Nice shooting, Eva."

"_Roger, CAG," _Eva commed back. _"One question: who gets the kill?"_

"I'll let the six of you fight over it," Rachel answered. She used the groans which floated over the comm to cover her own slight gasp as she pried her hand off the control stick. "Just don't destroy the OC this time, 'kay?"

Yep. Definitely stress fractures. And Dee was still making that sad little whining noise. And there was a definite smoky smell to the cockpit...

But she wasn't dead. As a non-Jedi going up against a skip, admittedly with a nice little trap on her side, that meant a lot.

"_Waverider_, CAG. Target neutralized, request permission to bring in the CAP."

"_CAG, _Waverider_. Permission granted. Come on home, Shadow."_

* * *

_Two days before the wedding._

"_Peregrine's Claw_, this is Wayfarer Station. You are cleared for transit to Xenen surface."

"Thanks, Wayfarer. See you again in a couple of days. _Claw_, out."

* * *

"He's late," Robert said.

"He is not late," Talia replied. "Your chrono is fast."

"Calibrated it just this morning. He's late."

"By all of two minutes," Talia said as the _Claw_ settled down on the landing pad. "Now hush."

Dutifully, Robert hushed. The _Claw's_ boarding ramp lowered, and the ship's sole occupant egressed and walked towards them, a single bag slung over one shoulder. Dark haired and even darker of eye, he wore the simple, brown undress uniform of the GDF Marines. Silver first lieutenant's bars glinted from his collar. The lone device upon the uniform, aside from rank, unit insignia, and flag, was a CIB. All in all, dashing figure.

He caught sight of them and grinned.

Robert found himself grinning back as the young man headed towards them. It had been a while since he'd seen his nephew, after all.

"Johnny!" Robert called when the young man entered range.

"Hey, Uncle Robert, Aunt Talia," Jonathan Playbird called back. They reached each other; Talia gave him a hug, and Robert offered a handshake.

"What's with the uniform?" Robert asked as they started to head back into Shay Memorial proper. "I thought you were on leave?"

"I am," Jonathan replied. "But I figured might as well try and make an entrance."

"Good lord, you've inherited your Dad's sense of the dramatic."

"Nah, if I had that, I be pointing swords at everything and making grandiose speeches. Speaking of such, he asked me to convey his apologies to the families of the bride groom."

"I see," Talia said, "so what is the official reason for my brother-in-law not showing up?"

"Officially, since we're in a state of war, whether the the New Republic has officially declared such or no, he cannot in good conscience take leave from the GDF at this time."

"And the real reason?"

"He is pissed at Mike Bullian something fierce," Jonathan answered with a shrug. "I think he might challenge Bullian to a duel on-sight; Dad had that glint in his eyes."

"Yeah, challenging the father of the bride to a duel to the death on the wedding day would be a bit... uncouth."

"More like a duel to the pain; it was that kind of glint."

Robert winced.

"Has he said why?"

"Nope. I asked; he said it was none of my beeswax, so I let it drop. I've... heard rumors, though."

"So have I. But you know what they say about rumors."

Jonathan held out an empty hand.

"Worth about this much, yeah. But thing is... I think Dad believes them."

An uncomfortable silence fell. Jonathan elected to break it.

"So, is Aunt Rachel going to be here?"

Robert barked a harsh, only-charitably-called laugh.

"No, she isn't. Officially, and legitimately, she can't because her ship is still on active duty and it just ain't right for a CAG to take leave in those circumstances."

"And unofficially..." Jonathan intoned leadingly.

"Unofficially, she figured your Dad would be here and she didn't want to deal with that right now."

Robert sighed.

"And I even had a plan to get them talking again, too."

Talia looked up at him, with interest.

"Is that why you bought all those custard pies?"

"Those were Plan B."

"I won't ask."

"Thank you. And I had such high hopes for the weekend! What's the point, if I can't get them talking to each other?"

"Well, you could try, ah, just enjoying the wedding for a wedding, instead of some masterminded plot to solve your family's squabbles," Talia suggested.

Robert stared at her, then closed his eyes and pinched his nose.

She smirked in victory.

"Personally," Jonathan added with a grin of his own, "I'm in favor of having fun, myself. May be our last chance for a while."

"Ain't that the truth," Robert agreed. Then he exhaled loudly and opened his eyes. "Is trip of yours for any kind of shop talk?"

"Just family and friends, Uncle. Just family and friends."

"But given who those family and friends are..."

"Political calculation?" Jonathan shrugged. "I'm Carlos DeLong's son, Uncle. His _adopted_ son, just like Golgan III is his adopted world. If my visit is to say anything, unofficially, to the right ears, then it would say that Golgan III is prepared to stand by the Kartuiin Sector no matter what course this war may take. Unofficially, of course."

"And officially, just 'family and friends.'"

"Exactly. Which means the same thing, when you get right down to it."

"Am I correctly hearing a philosophical _Marine_?"

"Grunt, grunt, me Marine, ha-roo," Jonathan said, monotone and deadpan. "That fit better?"

"Much."

"Glad to oblige your stereotypes, Uncle." They all laughed. "So, where are the kids?"

* * *

He was the oldest son of Robert DeLong. His father was a Guardian, a bladesman with few rivals, and one of maybe four surviving masters of the lightstaff style of combat. His uncle was the commander of an entire _Fleet_, single-system though that Fleet might be. His aunt was CAG aboard a MC-90. His cousin was a Marine. In all things, therefore, he himself had expectations of a certain level of 'badass' laid upon him. Recent actions during the short-lived attack on Xenen made it clear – thankfully – that he was quite able to live up to those expectations.

Yet for all that, Cameron DeLong was just a bit of clotheshorse. Not of the gaudy sort, not of the frilly persuasion, nor was he the sort to dress up 'to the nines' all the time. But he liked dressing just a level of style above most boys his age were expected to dress. 'Twas just his thing.

And when he got the chance to dress up 'the the nines', he did like to go a bit all out – more so with, say, weddings, than with, say, funerals.

So it was that fate found him and Matthew – who just as much of clotheshorse as his brother – perusing through one of Quis' better clothing stores after a new suit for Mary and Cay's wedding, while Jaq Losoda tagged along and made helpful suggestions. Jaq was not in any sense of a clotheshorse, and was already in possession of a new set of Jedi robes – of good cut, admittedly, and emerald green in color – so his suggestions were less practical and more exasperatedly tolerant. If by 'tolerant', one means 'subtly mocking'.

"Okay, opinion," Cam said, and held out two shirts.

They were both light blue, of identical shade. Jaq raised an eyebrow, and figured that it was his input being sought, as Matthew was on the other side of the store, still trying to pick out pants.

"What's the difference?"

"One collar has buttons."

"And this matters?"

"I don't like collars with buttons."

"Then get the one without the buttons and then explain to me _again_ why the three of you dragged me along for this."

Cam looked at both shirts and frowned.

"This color would work with the jacket, yeah, but maybe I should get that one from earlier..."

"No, you shouldn't." Cam looked up in surprise; Jaq sighed. "Look, even I know that you _don't wear black _to a wedding!"

Cam nodded, then put both shirts back and picked out another, this one plain white and _sans_ collar buttons.

Jaq facepalmed.

"Right, that's settled," Cam said happily. "Now for ties..."

He trailed off into silence. Jaq lowered his hand and looked up. Cam was staring at something, looking as if someone had clobbered him with a somewhat hefty stick. Jaq looked where Cam was looking-

And adopted a look on his own face appropriate to having been clobbered upside the head with a brick of gold.

Sarah DeLong stood there in a very pretty, strapless green dress. It looked to have little flowers and – were those stars? - hand-stitched into it as tasteful highlights.

"Well?" she asked coyly. "How do I look?"

"Great!" Jaq exclaimed, somewhat high-pitched, and before – most – of the rest of him could catch up. "You look... great."

She beamed.

"I'll get this one, then," she announced, without waiting for her older brother's input. "Now, for shoes..."

She turned about and hurried off. Both boys stood there, still looking beat about the noggin, but each for a different reason.

"So," Cam said, when he found voice again, "you were raised in the..."

"Corellian Jedi tradition, yes."

"Ah. And the robes are traditionally..."

"Green, yes."

"Are they..."

"Maybe a shade darker. Maybe."

Cam sighed. Upon further reflection, Jaq decided that he was simply confused about what had just happened.

But not unpleasantly so.

* * *

_Day of the wedding._

_The jungle covered the world. In the jungle was a clearing. To one side of the clearing, a great mountain. To another, a grove of trees. He entered the glade, and stood before the grove._

_Beside him were many sandcastles. Their designed varied; primarily of human make, but also of clear Bith, Rodian, Twi'lek, and Talz influence. Five of the human castles caught his attention._

_One constructed by unknown hands, yet subtly shaped by his hands which were not-his._

_One constructed by hands which made an enemy, yet turned to friend, and shaped his hands which were his-in-truth and by his hands which were not-his._

_Three constructed by his hands which were his-in-truth, and by another's hands; shaped, yet mostly unformed._

_His took his stand with the sandcastles, and faced out towards the jungle._

_Before them, a Rider, upon a pale horse. He must be kept from the grove._

_The Rider charged. They stood._

And Robert DeLong awoke with a start.

* * *

The yorik-trema settled upon the _Erounalok_'s shuttle-coelum, with a grace all felt unmatchable by this galaxy's native abominations. The egress maw cycled open, and out stepped the sole passenger. The welcoming party, in this case the ship's tactician, bared his teeth in greeting.

"Welcome to your flagship, my lord Kag."

Supreme Commander Rupaak Kag nodded in appreciation.

"I have been away much too long, Tactician," he said. They set oft foil the ship's command center. "I understand that repairs are, at last, complete?"

"For two days now, lord," the tactician said with a respectful half-bow. "_Erounalok_ has been long without her commander. The shapers say that she has... keened for you."

Rupaak paused in their walk, to fondly stroke the living walls of his ship.

"Have you, now," he whispered. "Good. You will soon taste much infidel blood, a fitting payment for the harm they did you. But I must ask you to wait a while longer."

He turned back to the tactician.

"I discovered what we spoke of."

"You found him, then? The abomination who struck the world called Golgan III..."

"He is known as Demos, now," Kag said, amused. "When _Erounalok_ is ready, we will depart from here and meet him, I think."

"My lord!" the tactician cried, aghast. "It - that thing is an abomination, an insult to the gods! If half of the rumors are true -"

"Do you question my will in this?"

"Yes, lord. I do."

Kag nodded, then moved fast as an amphistaff. Before the tactician could defend himself, Kag had him bent over, left arm twisted up behind his back. With a quick tug, Kag popped out the tactician's left shoulder; with a twist and squeeze, he shattered the tactician's wrist and hand.

To his credit, the tactician did not city out.

"Know this," Kag hissed. "Abomination he may be, but Deimos is the sort Yun-Harla delights to use. Our meeting is Her will... and mine. In such matters, tactician, if you stand against my will again, then I will kill you quickly and painlessly. Do you understand?"

"Understood, lord."

Kag let him up, and yanked his shoulder back into place. The tactician set his shattered hand and wrist himself.

"Think of it this way, tactician," Kag said as they set off again. "We are in the same area of this infidel galaxy as Deimos. Meeting with him is only good strategy."


	31. No Drama

"Well," Bren said as his flight stepped out into the cool Golgan air, "_that_ was the sim session from hell."

"Speak for yourself," Mikele growled. "I'd call that one worse than hell."

She plopped down on the steps outside the training facility and pulled off the scrunchy holding her hair back. Bren just stared at her as she shook the sweat from her hair and then re-bound it with the scrunchy. Then she shook her head again and fell back against the cool stone steps with a huff.

"I dint know what the two of you are grousing about," the massive Cullen said. "You actually scored kills."

"One apiece!" Mikele cried. "After five hours in a sim!"

"And none over the next two," Bren added grimly. "I hate to say it, but these Vong might even be worse than Imps."

Mikele stared at him as if he'd spouted horns. Or perhaps a second, rancorish head. To here Bren Silversun, mister "The Remnant is up to something, you just watch," call something _worse_ than the Empire was... well, she didn't know what it was. Just the final cap to 'one of those days', she supposed.

They stood – and sat – on the steps for several minutes, watching the sun set over the sea. It was one of her favorite sights, when she went planetside. She found it comforting, odd as it was to be comforted by the sea after getting thoroughly schooled in a seven-hour sim against enemy fighters which – according to rumor – were in-real-life made of flying space-coral.

Space-coral, of all things!

But the play of red and orange on the sea really was quite nice, and she let herself forget the sim and the oncoming war and lose herself in the color and the sound of the tide.

She jumped when Bren clapped his hands against his thighs.

"Well," he said loudly, "only one thing to do after a day like this. I'm off to the Red. You two want to come?"

"Not really my thing," Mikele said. While the Red catered to both sexes (and some of the other... variants... found in species with more than two... moving along, quickly) she never felt much need to visit it.

Cullen just frowned and shook his head no.

"Suit yourselves," Bren said, and headed off to find a hovertaxi. Cullen watched him go.

Mikele looked up at Cullen and grinned.

"Well? What are you up to?"

"Meeting a group of friends for dinner," he said, smiling slightly. "You're welcome to come along."

"Hmm... Are any of them cute guys?" she asked in a hopeful tone.

"I... don't think they're your type, really."

"Ah, well," Mikele said, and tried not to pout. "I guess they'll be wanting their steps back, so..."

She stood up and rubbed her hands.

"So... moving on, then?" Cullen asked.

"Yeah, I guess. "

"What d'you have planned?"

"Oh, I dunno. I'll think of something."

"Right. Well, good night then."

"Good night. Enjoy your dinner!"

They split up, Cullen towards a nearby hovertaxi, and Mikele towards... well, maybe towards the beach. A walk would be nice, and she could see the rest of the sunset. Of course, she was hungry – simming always gave her an appetite – so she could head in the same direction as Cullen and find dinner. Plenty of nice sit-down restaurants in downtown, or a sandwich shop, or...

Or she could just go back to her quarters and read.

She stopped – fortunately not in the middle of the road – and glanced in all three directions: beach, food, or book. She pursed her lips and huffed.

Too many choices. And no squadron – or flight – commander to offer direction.

Darn it.


	32. Family

"So, ten more minutes?"

Cam was not entirely certain what his mother was talking about. He _was_ pretty sure it didn't apply to him, as he was actually up early. Not that he wouldn't have minded another ten minutes of sleep; in fact, he'd tried to claim just that. For him, though, sleep would not come.

It had been a good party, despite the undercurrent of tension which he did not really understand. The only part he regretted was glass of punch number forty-two. Because that glass of punch made him have to go to the bathroom.

On the way back from the bathroom, he'd overheard a conversation between General Bel Iblis and Commodore Henderson.

The rest of the party had been something of a blur. Young though he might be, even he knew that a General and Commodore didn't say things like "sixty-five percent of our fighting capacity" in _that_ tone if it was something good.

"But if he thinks he's showing to see my daughter," his dad said, snapping Cam out of his reverie, "after getting her in late last night..."

"They were not late," his mom answered sternly, though with a slight twist to the corner of her mouth. "I keep telling you that your chrono is fast. Good morning, sweetheart."

"Mornin', Mom," Cam said as he sat down at the table and poured himself some cereal.

"Mornin', son," Robert said, then turned back to Talia. "My chrono is fast? Did you or did you not synchronize them before we left to the reception?"

He had no idea what they were discussing, though he had some vague notion that it somehow involved Sarah.

"I did in fact synchronize them," Talia replied acerbically, "so your-"

She stopped and narrowed her eyes at him. Cam poured milk over his cereal.

"You set it ahead, didn't you?"

"Me?" Robert said, all innocence. "I am hurt – hurt! - that you'd think such a thing!"

Talia frowned. Robert met her gaze. Cam ate a spoonful of cereal. He had a further vague recollection that Sarah had not come home with them after the party, but had been permitted to stay out with Jaq. Until – gasp and wow – 2200. Conflicted as Cam was over the whole deal – he knew Jaq far too well to be fully comfortable with it – he also knew that Jaq would have kept the curfew.

"Okay, fine, I set it ahead by five minutes," Robert admitted.

Ah. That made more sense. Cam took another bite of cereal, and wished he'd poured from the box of corn by-product with more added sugar.

"Robert! And you gave him a hard time about being three minutes late!"

"It was funny!"

"It was not funny, you nearly scared that poor boy half to death!"

"So? If he wants to hand around with my daughter, then I _will _have to take the wind out of him a bit."

"He's a good kid-"

"He's a thirteen year old boy," Robert said flatly, though the corners of his mouth twitched. "I, once upon a time, was a thirteen year old boy. Trust me, when it comes to girls, there is no such thing as a _good_ thirteen year old boy; there is only 'chaotic evil' and 'barely restrained evil'. Am I right, Cam?"

Cam looked up from his cereal and raised an eyebrow.

"Do you really want me to answer that, Dad?"

"Never mind," Robert said quickly. "Seriously, Tal? If I gotta trust Sarah with somebody... might as well be Jaq Losoda."

Cam wasn't too certain he'd agree with that, but he said nothing.

"Because he's a _good kid_," Talia said.

"Because he's _Tag's_ kid," Robert corrected. "So, if need be, I can just pick up the comlink..."

He grinned expansively. Talia crossed her arms and stared at him.

"You are horrible, Robert DeLong."

"Yep. But you love me anyway."

"Hrm."

But she smiled anyway.

Cam was about to speak up and ask what they had meant by 'ten more minutes' when there came a loud bang – and louder cursing – from upstairs. He set his spoon down and watched the door; Robert and Talia looked at each other and shrugged. The cursing didn't sound like either of the twins.

Which led to only one conclusion, which was confirmed when a very bleary-eyed Johnny came stumbling into the kitchen.

"Mornin', y'all," he grumbled with a yawn. "What's all the ruckus 'bout?"

He picked up a cereal box and studied it intently. Cam was not entirely certain, but it looked like his eyes were not focusing correctly. At the very least he blinked a lot, and went bug-eyed at random intervals.

"Please tell me you're not hung over," Talia said after a few moments.

Johnny set down the cereal box.

"I am not hung over," he announced in very precise tones. "I am, however, very sleep deprived."

"What time did you get in?" Robert asked, curious.

"I believe the technical term is 'oh-dark-thirty'. Ran into some of the younger AFFC officers, and got challenged to a game of sabbacc for honor and glory or something like that."

He turned to Cam and gestured at the cereal boxes.

"Which is the good stuff, Squirt?"

"That one. More sugar in it."

Johnny picked up the indicated box and eyed it dubiously.

"What else is in it?"

"Corn by-product."

"Works for me."

Johnny poured a bowl of cereal, then added milk.

"So," he said after his first bite, "I'll ask again. What was all the ruckus about?"

"Your uncle is an evil man," Talia said.

"So he takes after granddad?"

"Please," Robert scoffed, "I'm not _that_ bad."

"He tried to prank Jaq," Cam said.

"Succeeded, actually."

"The poor lad," Johnny chuckled. Then he turned back to his cereal, apparently deeming this as being of greater concern.

"So what the whole ten minutes thing about?" Cam asked, once he was almost positive there would be no further interruptions. It was a weekend, and Matt and Sarah both tended to sleep in on weekends.

"Oh," Robert said, waving a hand dismissively, "we were just wondering when Jaq would show up to ask to take your sister to breakfast."

Cam thought a moment.

"Six minutes."

"Why that-" Robert began.

"Two credits."

"You're on."

For the next five minutes and forty-five seconds, the only sound in the room was the clink of spoon against bowl, and the crunch of milk-softened cereal against teeth. Then Cam set his spoon down and waited. So did the others.

Fifteen seconds later, there came a knock at the door. Talia got up to answer it. She looked out the window, and then turned back to her boys and grinned. She opened the door and in stepped Jaq Losoda. He looked to have something of a speech prepared, but that seemed to fly out of his head when he noticed who all was at the table.

Robert, Cam, and Johnny three each maintained suitably grave expressions. Talia rolled her eyes at the three of them and patted Jaq's shoulder encouragingly.

"Umm, good morning?" Jaq began, hesitantly. "Is, uh, is Sarah up?"

"Not yet, dear," Talia said kindly. Cam fought the urge to grin.

"Oh. I, uh... do you know when she'll be up?"

"Might be a while, yet. Join us for breakfast?"

Jaq looked at the table and audibly gulped. Cam fought to keep his serious face.

"No, thank you, uh, Miss Talia," Jaq said, turning a bit red, but still attempting to make a manful go of it. As manful, at least, as a thirteen year old boy can hope for. "Actually, I was, uhm... I was wondering if I could, ah, take Sarah out for breakfast..."

He trailed off, in utter confusion, when Cameron, still wearing an expression appropriate for a close friend's funeral, held out his hand to his father. Robert, somewhat begrudgingly, fished out two single-credit pieces from his pocket and plinked them into his son's hand.

"Did... I miss something?"


	33. Courtessan

Drax had never particularly understood why centers of prostitution were referred to as 'red light districts'. Someone had explained to him that once, way back in the depths of time when Coruscanti soil actually saw the light of day, human prostitutes would identify their place of business with a lantern wrapped in red cloth. Or a red cord, in one case, but he figured that twist was from a different sort of story. Even so, it was a complete mystery to him why even his own species used the term. Just another one of those weird influences the human species had over the galaxy at large.

It would make more sense to him if whoring had itself been a human invention, but the weird fact that just about every species which a) didn't have a clearly defined mating cycle, and b) had developed an economic system as least as sophisticated as 'barter', had also developed the profession. The Twi'lek, especially, had elevated the thing to damn near an art form.

Not that he had any problem with that. Ryloth was a good place to spend a month's leave.

He was from some no-name planet on the ass-end of nowhere in the Outer Rim. Not that this was necessarily a disadvantage: see, for instance, the career and fates of the famed Skywalker clan. However, he had not been graced with Force-sensitivity and mad pod-racer skills. To get off of No-Name Ass-End, as he liked to think of it, had required much more guile and sheer, unmitigated _gall_ than wait-for-the-hand-of-fate.

Every now and again, he'd notice someone from those days passing through Golgan III. He always made certain to be elsewhere.

He didn't like that story. He never wanted to have to tell it. He was very grateful, therefore, that both Vran Diesato and Carlos DeLong had honored his wish not to talk about it. He was grateful, also, to Fortune's (the only 'god' he even considered acknowledging, and only then for irony) dice roll which had landed him on Golgan III in the first place.

Even an atheist had leave room for chance. Otherwise, he'd never play cards.

Chance aside, new life aside, Drax's old life had left him with an almost neurotic distaste for meetings, and fairly well experienced with red light districts. As such, walking into the one in Golgan III's capital was like stepping into some weird parallel dimension. The building fronts were in fact decorated with honest-to-nihil lanterns covered in red paper. The streets and facades were clean; no drugged out women lay in alleyways; the air did not reek of piss and fluids and refuse and worse.

He knew that 'worse' had once been the norm. As a mere lieutenant, new to his rank, at the time DeLong had made the arrangement, he'd been to the Red many times; less so, now that he was actually important; he simply didn't have time anymore. But in those early days he'd seen what it was like. It was very different now. The facades were almost pretty.

This was in fact his first visit to the Red in many years. And, confound it, it was just for a business meeting, abeit a weird one. Normally he'd send in a subordinate, but the intelligence was sensitive enough, and what he needed critical enough, that he decided to go himself. His contact had been glad, almost eager, to set up the appointment. Time would tell if that was a good thing or a bad.

The sounds of his footfalls echoed off the facades, and all the shadows changed as night fell and the lights came on. The primary lights were the red lanterns, which somehow managed to tint even the white street lamps. The effect left him mildly unsettled; he strained his senses as the fight-or-flight response set in. His heart started to pound, and his muscles went taught, and for a moment his hindbrain thought it was still in the warrens of No-Name Ass-End, with Fortune only knew what coming up...

When the footfalls and laughter sounded behind him, he barely managed to avoid jumping a few feet in the air and then doing something very stupid. Instead he turned slowly and calmly, with his heart attempting to batter his sternum into tiny pieces. The source of the noise was a handsome young man, a GDF lieutenant junior-grade, in undress blacks with flashings and device marking him a fighter pilot on the _Freedom's Fire_. A young lady hung onto his arm, pressed up against him, and he hovered somewhat protectively over her in the red light; though both had an air about them of one playing a game.

Drax himself was in full uniform, and the lieutenant drew up short and braced to attention – as best able, with the girl on his arm – when he noticed that a _commodore_ was staring at him. Drax chuckled one, then nodded magnanimously and waved them on their way. He watched them go, and then shook his head; that was the purpose of the red light. To trigger the fight-or-flight response, and flood the system with adrenaline and endorphins and various analogues thereof. It was a mood-setter, and he'd fallen for it.

He shook his head in disgust at being so easily manipulated by a cheap psychological ploy. In an effort to restore his good mood – it would not do to stay mad – he conjured up the image of how big the lieutenant's eyes had gotten. That made him laugh out loud, and he carried on.

He was still chuckling over the look on the lieutenant's face – what did he expect Drax to say, since the Red was neither illegal nor counter to regs, and their were both in it? – when he finally arrived at his destination. It was, in all honesty, the plainer of all the buildings in the Red. The facade was simple brick with poplar trim; the wood not painted but weather-treated and stained in such a way as to bring out and preserve the blues and purples of the freshly planed grain. It contrasted well with the brick, and took on an interesting hue in the red light.

This was the office/domicile of Carlotta Starspell, known as Lady Carlotta by the respectful and/or maliciously ironic, respected and feared by all as Madam of the Red. Even by the maliciously ironic, as malicious irony rolled off her and gave her free rein to counter with her own sharp tongue. She'd seen too much to be fazed by often self-righteous fools who thought themselves of high wit.

It seemed strange to Drax that she would adopt such a plain building, given the ostentation of some of the other facades. Still, he figured that in some strange, backwards way, it made her easy to find... and easy to underestimate. He could understand that, though in the old days he'd preferred to be easy to underestimate and hard to find. But different strokes, and all of that.

He stepped up to the door and rang the buzzer.

"_Yes?"_ came a voice. He couldn't tell if the voice was a male countertenor or a female mezzosoprano, and he could barely tell that it came from an artificial vocorder. He nodded to himself in appreciation.

"Commodore Drax, here to see Lady Carlotta," he said quietly. "I have an appointment."

"_You may enter,"_ said the voice, and the door swung open a fraction. He pushed it open, admiring the mindset behind it; anyone entering would have to touch the door, and likely leave some sort of physical evidence. Carlotta had reason to be paranoid; most of the old pimps, except for the absolute worst, had taken deals and gotten off of Golgan III rather than face charges for battery, rape, and murder. They never forgot who it was who had cost them their businesses.

He stepped into the foyer and closed the door behind him. The difference between inside and out was striking; the walls were covered in darkwood paneling, and softly lit. Well-cushioned chairs, colored to match the paneling, stood in each corner, each with a small desk and reading light next to it. The desks looked to hold several stacks of data chips and one or two datapads a piece; clearly she did not believe in 'bored while you wait'.

Drax was contemplating one of the chairs when an astromech droid rolled into the doorway into the main room, and caught his complete attention. It was an R2 unit, but clearly an older model. Which was in itself not weird, even in the Red; a good astromech, especially an after market R2, was considered a wise investment, especially for a prostitute – _courtesan_, he mentally corrected himself, now that he was in Carlotta's domain. So what caught his attention was not the presence of an R2 unit, but rather it's color scheme.

The damn thing was painted the brightest, yellowest yellow he'd ever seen, with lime green highlights and detailing. His eyes crossed just at the sight of it.

The R2 unit retracted the middle limb, then drew up to full height and whirred and bowed at him. Uncertainly, he bowed back. The droid straightened, redeployed the middle limb, then turned a full circle in the door and started into the main room. It beeped twice at him and moved it's sensor dome in a way which Drax took to mean 'follow me'.

So he did, and discovered the main room to be even more of a contrast with the red outside than was the foyer. The light, if anything, was even softer than in the foyer; though there more sources, from ceiling fixtures to wall sconces, so the room was by no means dark. It was modestly apportioned, with only a couch – albeit a large and lush one – and a single table with two chairs. The walls were a gentle beige, and the carpet a subtly darker shade. Art hung on each wall, depictions of forests and great cities, wild waterfalls and starships in dock. Four doors, each with a scomp-lock, led to other rooms in the building. The R2 unit headed for the furthermost door.

Unsure of what to do next – and somewhat wary of sitting on the couch, he didn't know where it had been – Drax studied the art. He pushed up his glasses in surprise when he realized that none of them were holograms; they were all real pain on real canvas. He'd seen enough art – sometime very close up – to know that they were not in any way professionally done, but that whoever had painted them had no small amount of talent.

A whirring sound flitted across the room as the droid engaged the scomp-lock, and Drax took a second look at the painting of the waterfall. The person who'd painted it had clearly never seen a real waterfall – in books, maybe, or on the holo, but never in person. Yet there was something to the piece, a psychological character more felt than seen, which indicated to Drax that the painted had really, _really_ wanted to see a waterfall. To stick their hands into the cascade, to jump in the pool and stand beneath it, and _laugh_ and glory as the great curtains splashed on and around her...

But she had given up on seeing that waterfall, he realized with a shock, and with the same certainty with which he knew that the artist was a woman. Somehow, in a way which he could never define while sober, and probably never while drunk, he knew that the longing in that painting was a hopeless one.

In times like that he wished that the Jedi had not proven that sentients had souls. On impulse he reached up to touch the painting.

"Please don't," came a softly accented, alto, clearly female and clearly organic voice. He withdrew his hand quickly, and turned somewhat embarrassedly. He'd been so taken up in the waterfall that he hadn't even heard Lady Carlotta enter.

She was a tall, willowy brunette, her hair flowing loose over her shoulders and to the middle of her back., highlighted by streaks of dark red. An older woman, early forties at least, for all that he could tell, though still exceedingly beautiful. Large brown eyes, which had a veneer of softness, and a genuine kindness, but he could see the steel beneath them. Firm, decently sized breasts. And her exceedingly beautiful features? Sharp and chiseled like a stone knife; weathered, with a story behind every line; full lips, lightly olive skin. There _might_ have been some cosmetic work behind that, but if there was then it had merely taken her obvious maturity and built on it, rather than attempting to recapture the cuteness of youth.

She wore a light pink, simply-cut, though with a plunging neckline, short-sleeved blouse. A dark red, ankle-length dress and comfortable looking shoes completed the ensemble. She held her hands behind her.

An attractive and striking woman, even to Devaronian eyes. For a moment Drax was disappointed that he was here on business, and not for pleasure. Human and Devaronian genetics weren't close enough to produce crossbreeds, save in very rare and very controlled conditions, but they were close enough that the accouterments of nature were quite similar. Though dissimilar enough that his first time with a human woman had been... pleasantly awkward. He'd become a big fan of the scientific method, after that.

For a fleeting moment, he considered making an offer. Then he took another look at those eyes, at the steel and the reflection of the furnace in which they were forged, and thought better of it. This was a person worth respecting, not – what was the General's phrase? oh, right – treating like 'a cheap nerf-burger'.

"Apologies, lady," Drax said quietly, as he let his hand rest at his sides. "I meant no offense."

"None was taken," she said, again quietly, but not at all lightly. "They are all I have left of those girls, you see, I don't want to risk damage."

"Again, lady, my abject apologies." Good heavens, this was starting on the wrong foot. "I did not know."

Carlotta waved it off, then walked up to him. To his eyes she seemed to glide.

"Commodore... Drax, correct?" she asked.

"Yes, ma'am," he said, and actually braced to attention. She had that damnable command presence which could actually command his respect; after time in the GDF bracing for such person was second nature.

She grinned at him, brilliantly, and laughed.

"At ease, at ease!" she said, and held out her hand. "Carlotta Starspell."

He took her hand.

"Commodore Drax," he said, and then on impulse raised her hand and kissed it. "An honor, lady."

Now her grin formed dimples.

"Enough with the lady, Commodore," she said, releasing his hand and stepping back a pace. "Just Carly, please. I'm not, and have never been, a 'lady'."

He wasn't sure what to say to that, so he just smiled and shoulder-bowed in acknowledgment of the point. She nodded and then started walking around him.

"Commodore Drax," she said quietly, to herself. "Carlos' chief of intelligence... and Second Squadron commander, correct?"

"That is right." He found it odd that she would refer to General DeLong by his first name.

"And a Devaronian...," she whispered. She tapped her teeth one, then turned to the R2 unit.

"Katya, two cups of _sohan _tea, sugar in mine, two sprigs of mint in the Commodore's. Also, a serving of raspberry scones," she ordered. The droid – Katya – beeped, bowed, then headed for one of the other doors, which Drax deduced led towards a kitchen of some sorts.

"Good girl," she whispered, and then turned back to him.

"You know your chemistry, la- Carly," he said appreciatively. _Sohan_ tea was not only a tea which both humans and Devaronians could metabolize, but which both species actually liked. The spring of mint, for him, was an exceptionally skillful touch. The raspberry scones were also equally palatable, and complemented well the flavor of the tea.

"One has to, in my line of work. We get more than just humans here, you know."

"I am well aware. I read your intelligence reports," he said with sharp-toothed smile of his own.

"Hence, your visit."

"Ah, yes," he said, somewhat nervously. "I do not mean to question your affairs-" he winced at the word choice, "- but are there any, ah, active recording devices?"

"All the buildings are wired for video and sound," she said. "Sometimes a customer wants to take a record home; sometimes we broadcast live. But don't worry, I switch off all of that when I saw you coming. You can see the control board, if you'd like."

"No, I do not think I need to," he said, deciding to trust her. "And yes, I am here on business. But first, I must ask...," he gestured at the paintings, "were these all by, ah..."

"Anastasia, Tinata, Cottontail, and Klavdiya," she said pointing at each of the works in turn. Drax got the idea that 'Cottontail' was a nickname. "All my girls, back... before. Katya was another; I had nothing of hers except her name. All are dead."

"I am very sorry. For what it is worth."

"Much, Commodore. Few enough were even that, in those days. We were just a dark secret to keep tucked away in the city. They died of hopelessness, and of cruelty. At one point, though, they made these."

"They did very well. This one here – Cottontail, you said – would have had great success in the neo-classical school."

"You're familiar with art, Commodore?"

"Somewhat, yes," he said hastily. How best to explain his story, that most of his experience with art was up close personal, the pieces bare inches from him as he held them close and ran like hell from the gendarme?

Before the conversation went any farther the kitchen door whooshed open and Katya rolled in, bearing a full tea set.

Carlotta touched his elbow and steered him towards the couch.

"That must be quite the story," she said. "You'll have to tell me sometime, but for now, we will have tea."

A jolt from the touch ran up his arm and into his chest, and he found that he _wanted_ to tell her the story. The whole, unmentionable, unheroic, and downright dishonorable saga of how he'd come from No-Name Ass-End to Golgan III. That if anyone would understand, it would be her, given what all she'd been involved in-

Which was the whole point, wasn't it? That was the game; that was how he was supposed to feel around her. She had been trained, had taught herself, to make men desire intimacy with her; how else would they be convinced to pay her for it, rather than another prostitute? He wanted to trust her, General DeLong trusted, but were either of them right to do so? Had she simply sized the General up, years ago, and played him as she had undoubtedly played other customers?

Was there any truth to be had in the Red?

But for now, he had more immediate problems. Like the couch. He paused before it, and she looked at him quizzically.

"About the couch," he said, hesitantly, and pushing aside his questions, "do you- I mean- sanitation?"

He had no clue what he meant to say, but that wasn't really it. Her eyes got wide, and he was half afraid she'd haul off and slap him. Then she doubled over laughing.

She had such a nice laugh.

"Sanitation!" she crowed, then broke to giggling. "Sanitation! I don't entertain customers on the _couch_, that's what the other rooms are for!" She snorted. "Sanitation, indeed!"

"It is a perfectly valid concern," he said sharply, attempting to regain some dignity. Alas, but this only made her giggle all the more.

"You're very silly," she said, then pointed him back towards the couch and let her laughter fade. "Now sit, Commodore, and relax."

He pushed his glasses up his nose and sat, with much gravitas. She snorted again and sat down next to him, but with a meter's separation. Then, sharply, "Katya!"

The droid rolled over, tea tray balanced on it's dome. It parked next to the couch, and Drax noticed that the tray had legs on it. Katya somehow maneuvered so that it set the tea tray on the floor and could back out from under it without tipping anything over. The droid warbled a question at Carlotta.

"No, I think we're fine for now," she said soothingly. "But put on some music. Schovar, _Liebeslieder_ No. 62, _Ai no Sakura_. Conversational volume, please."

The droid whistled, did its weird bow, and rolled off.

The set held two porcelain tea cups, a tea pot of similar composition, and a simple plate holding the scones. According to the latest social conventions, the tea cups did not rest upon accompanying saucers. Gold filigree decorated the rim of the cups, and ran down the sides in a mandelbrot pattern. Emerald green enamel with lime highlights encrusted the handle. The tea pot and the plate of scones were decorated in a similar scheme. Drax found the visual effect exotic and pleasing.

They waited for a moment, and then lilting strains of the _liebeslieder_ wove through the air. Drax thought it a lovely piece, written for harp and piano and full strings; whimsical, yet with deep undercurrents of melancholy, and deeper, subtler undercurrents of quiet hope. She did not move or change her posture at all, but Drax noticed something... shift in her face, around her eyes. A softening in remembrance... or maybe something else.

Before he could follow that idea any further, Carlotta shook off whatever it was, and from her perch on the couch lifted the tea pot and began to pour the tea. She started with his cup, again according to social convention: the host or hostess poured for the guest first, in descending order of social prominence, if the guests were known to care about such things. (The military did things opposite, with the guests at any given tea or dinner served in ascending order of rank; that was one of General DeLong's quirkier innovations; Drax was not sure if that was a good thing or bad thing, though he did enjoy the discomfort it produced in the average ensign or junior enlisted man.) Carlotta spilled not a single drop of tea, nor did she touch the pot to either cup; her every movement was graceful, precise, and exceptionally controlled.

She turn slightly and handed him his teacup, again with that same graceful precision.

Then, in full defiance of all _civilian _social convention, she picked up her teacup and took the first sip. Drax grinned, raised his cup in salute, and took a sip of his own. _Sohan_ was a special blend of two black teas and one green tea, and whoever had made _this_ tea had outdone themselves in bringing out and mixing the flavors. There was also an extra... something, in there, which he couldn't quite identify, but which complemented well with the flavor from the mint sprigs. He took another sip, and let himself relax a bit.

Not a lot, but a bit was allowable. Naturally, Carlotta noticed this.

"How's your tea, Commodore?" she asked. "I have Katya trained in tea-making, but sometimes even the best astromech doesn't quite 'get it'."

"Then my complements to your droid," he replied dryly. "It is very good." Then, as she was taking another sip of her own, he added, "Though there is a flavor present which I cannot identify, and now hope is not leaked droid grease."

Damn her, but she managed to avoid spewing the tea. He did, though, have the slight satisfaction of watching her throat move in weird ways as she tried to swallow tea past an involuntary giggle, and seeing her hold the teacup at her mouth for several seconds longer than a sip usually required. But she recovered quickly, and replaced her teacup on the tray, with nothing more to show for the experience than a brief glare in his direction and definitely amused twinkle in her eyes.

"No, Commodore," she said once she'd recovered, though her voice cracked just a tad, "we try- excuse me- we try to make sure that Katya doesn't leak in the kitchen."

"A wise idea." He raised his cup. "Ah... what _is_ it, then?"

"Something in the green tea leaves. We're not entirely sure what."

He froze, the cup held tilted against his lips.

"It's nothing _bad_," Carlotta said quickly.

He relaxed, slightly, and took the sip.

"At least, we don't think it is. No one's done a study on long-term effects."

Damn him, but the only reason he avoided spewing the tea across the room was because he hadn't moved the cup yet. As soon as he _replaced_ all the undrunk tea in the cup, he set it down on the tray, perhaps a bit roughly.

"Long term-" he sputtered, once he was done coughing, "No study- why would- what did I just _drink_?!"

"_Sohan_ tea, Commodore, with mint. Nothing more than that. Certainly not droid grease."

"_Touche._"

She grinned.

"The truth, now? The black teas are imported; for some reason our local varieties don't come out quite right. The green tea, on the other hand, comes from one of the islands in the Olahan archipelago. There's something in the soil there which gets into the tea plants and isn't metabolized out. We don't know exactly _what_ combination of chemicals it is, but the biochem people assure me that there is nothing there poisonous to any known sentient species. Even those who don't like tea."

"Not liking something and suffering a horrible death from it are two different things," Drax protested. "How do they know whatever-this-is is harmless if they cannot define it?"

"I'm told they got drunk and dared a wandering Gamorrean to drink some of it."

"That proves nothing. One could give a Gamorrean cyanide and nothing would happen."

"What about iocaine?"

"Iocaine, fine. I will grant you that. For everything _not_ iocaine, however-" he stopped and glared at her in sudden realization. "You are attempting to get a rise out of me."

"No. I'm succeeding."

He glared at her some more. She smiled back, and took a sip of her tea. At last he snorted and shook his head, then let his glare fade in spite of himself.

"You are certain, then, that this will not kill me?"

"As certain as I can be about anything around here."

"How do I know you are telling me the truth?"

"You just have to trust me, Commodore. Otherwise your tea will get cold, go to waste, and Katya will become _very_ annoyed."

A faint beep-whir from elsewhere in the building seemed to confirm this.

"And I would not wish to annoy the astromech," Drax said quickly. "I have seen what can result."

"Dare I ask?"

"Let us just say that it relates to the last time I trusted a drink – of unknown composition – which someone else gave to me."

"Ah."

She stared at Drax, and he stared at the teacup.

He picked up the teacup.

"The last time I trusted another with my drink," he said quietly and seriously, "I wound up naked in a cell three days later, accused of a crime I did not commit and half believing myself to be an apple tart."

He took a sip of tea, then set the cup back down and picked up a raspberry scone. He took a bite of scone – it was still warm, and tasted exceptional – and then placed the remainder atop the teacup. He arranged them just so, and then looked into Carlotta's eyes and gave her a slow nod.

She nodded back.

"What convinced you?"

"Years ago a young fugitive came to this world looking for work. A certain man – imperfect, but honorable in his way – trusted that fugitive enough to give him a place. That same man trusts you, Carlotta of the Red. So I must as well. Otherwise I deny myself, and the trust placed in me."

"How... philosophical."

"Something of the sort," Drax said, then shrugged. "I believe our mutual friend would call it honor."

"Honor is philosophy."

Drax grinned, then lifted up the scone in salute. This, for some reason, set Carlotta near rolling with laughter. Drax munched his scone in satisfaction.

"I believe that leaves us even."

"Sure, sure, whatever," Carlotta said once she got herself back under control. "Enjoying the scone?"

"Immensely. Did Katya make these as well?"

"I did those, actually."

"Have you considered a second career as a pastry chef?"

"Are you kidding? I _license _that stuff. I do better selling recipes to other people than I would with a bakery of my own. This business is trouble enough."

"I can somewhat understand why. On occasion I have to deal with politicians."

"Please. Don't insult us."

"My apologies."

Drax finished the scone, then took a sip of tea and leaded back against the arm of the couch, cradling the cup in his hands. Carlotta took a sip of her own, and then leaned on her side against the back of the couch, facing him.

"As much I have enjoyed the banter," Drax said, "I fear we must get down to business."

"I was wondering when that would happen."

"Yes, well," he said, and tried to find a good lead in. Lacking one, he decided to press on and see what happened. "You are familiar with the recent events on the Outer Rim, at the eastern edge of the galaxy?"

"I know that an Ex-Gal facility was destroyed on Belkadan, and that whatever attacked them launch incursions as far in as Xenen."

"You are well informed."

"People talk. None from your department, though."

"I should hope not. The General and I trained them better than that. In any case, you are correct. I will not get into the details what happened at Belkadan, but the name of the species is Yuuzhan Vong, and they appear to hail from somewhere outside of our own galaxy. The force which attacked Xenen has been linked – by force composition and analysis of tactics – to three other smaller enemy forces operating up and down the Shermach trade route. We believe these to be spoiling units operating independent of the main force."

"Commercial raiders, then?"

"An apt description, though some of us believe that their target is not just New Republic supply lines. We believe that they are seeking to force the New Republic fleet to deploy assets defensively against _them_, rather than against the invasion force. They are a diversion, one which the New Republic cannot afford. Not with an enemy of unknown strength pouring in across the Rim."

"Fascinating," Carlotta replied. "So this has what to do with me?"

"Precious intelligence was brought to the New Republic by an Ex-Gal survivor named Danni Quee – and the Jedi Knight Jacen Solo." Her eyes widened, just a bit, and Drax nodded. "Yes, _they_ were involved, and so was Skywalker. Ms. Quee was their captive for several days; fortunately she has they eyes of a trained scientist and observer."

Also fortunate that General DeLong had a good contact in Tag Rendar, which allowed Drax access to the information; but he decided it would not be profitable to mention that, and so carried on.

"What I am about to tell you does not leave this room."

"Like I said, the records are off; plus, I can be very good at forgetting things. I find it useful, in my line of work."

"I can believe it. Intelligence has been instructed to come of with a list of probable Yuuzhan Vong targets on the Shermach. General DeLong wishes to stage an ambush against one of the raiding fleets. Our recommendations are nearly finished, but... I cannot confirm them yet. Not entirely, not to the extent I wish. There is much that we learned from her about the Yuuzhan Vong, but I need..." He grew awkward. "I... my apologies, but there is no safe way to ask this. There is a sociological question regarding the Yuuzhan Vong on which I require outside advice, and I fear that you were the first to come to mind."

She took another sip of tea, and motioned for him to go on. He took a deep breath, steeled himself, and... went on.

"Are you, or are any of your... employees... familiar with the BDSM subculture?"

The teacup clicked against her teeth, and her hands shook so hard that she nearly spilled the tea. She set the cup down, and it rattled loudly against the tray. She rapidly clenched and unclenched her fists as she placed them in her lap.

"I... what did you just ask me?" Her voice was quiet and harsh, like the wind before a Tatooine sandstorm.

"Forgive me, please," he said, and felt quite wretched; he had delighted in attempting to break her poise earlier; now he had done so, and he felt no pleasure about it at all. "I did not mean to upset you."

"So why the hell did you have to ask about _that_?"

"Because we have inferred, from Ms. Quee's observations, that the Yuuzhan Vong believe pain is the special province of their gods," he continued desperately, hoping that she would understand. "They consider it a religious duty to experience and inflict pain, for in doing so they bring themselves closer to their gods – closer to reality."

A dark place in his brain whispered that they might just have a point. He told it to shut the frak up and continued on.

"Bondage, domination, submission, and sado-masochism is the closest galactic subculture to that which I could find. To accurately predict the movements of I must come to a better understanding of their psychology, and I do not – and I do not _understand _a mindset which glorifies the infliction of pain, or which derives a sexual pleasure from hurting another or from being hurt. I never have. Only a sexual masochist could come close to understanding that psychology, which I why I must speak with someone who is one."

He stopped when he realized that Carlotta had gone very pale. She stared at him, her face undreadable, and then she turned her back on him and quickly unzipped and pulled down her dress.

His indrawn breath hissed violently through his teeth when he saw the red scars on her back.

"I'm not a masochist, Commodore," she said quietly, still facing away. Then she turned her head to look at him over her shoulder. "But a true sadist would like it that way. Back in the old days a customer could come in, get one of us and do whatever the fuck he wanted. Beat the girl? Just don't kill her; the girl makes good money for the pimp, you know. Then they beat us and beat us and beat us until we bleed and we let them just because if we don't fight then maybe the sick bastard will get bored and quit-"

She stopped and squeezed her eyes shut against sudden tears. Drax took a chance and leaned towards her, and rested his hand on her shoulder. She didn't twist away, but instead reached up and grasped it as if she feared it would vanish once she let go.

"Some things we try to forget, Commodore," she said quietly, her eyes still shut. "But some things we can't."

"Some memories are carved into us," he said, just as quietly. "A lot like scars."

"Sadly true."

"A good bacta treatment would have gotten rid of these. Even after the fact."

"I got rid of most of them. Bad for business; john's expect the girl to be pretty. But these... these I keep. So I can remember; who we were, who we _are_, how we were used and how we will never be used again."

He squeezed her shoulder, but gently. She squeezed his hand back, and then let go. He took the hint, and withdrew his own.

"Your touch is very gentle, Commodore."

"I have had enough of roughness."

"Years ago I would have sold all I had to be touched like that."

There seemed no comment he could make to that. She accepted his silence for what it was, and then pulled her dress back up and refastened it.

"Still and all," she said, her voice almost back to normal, "it is a lot better now. We drove the pimps out, and we can... deal... with the overly abusive type. But we don't get many of those anymore; words gets around in the spacers that we aren't the place for that. Our clientèle is of a... better quality now."

"High quality johns?"

"Of course. Take, for example, the young lieutenant you passed after you entered the Red." He raised an eyebrow at her, which provoked out a normal sounding chuckle. "Oh yes, I have this place wired. I know who comes in, and who goes out, and you should be glad of that Commodore Drax, as that's how I can get such good intel to you!"

She faced him now with a raised eyebrow her own.

"I will endeavor not to complain."

"Good boy. Now, the lieutenant was one Bren Silversun, a pilot off of _Freedom's Fire_."

"I know of him," Drax interrupted. "His flight was escorting Damien Korsetti's prisoner transport out-system when we were attacked. By all accounts they comported themselves well."

"Good for them. Young Silversun is one of our better customers, both in terms of frequency-" at this she picked up her cup and took a sip of tea "-and quality. Most of the girls love him, and actively compete to see which one gets a session. He is never abusive. He is gentle. He is fun, and likes to play." She took another sip. "Has something of a penchant for adventure and dragon-slaying, although he seems to have a one-track mind when it comes to who plays the dragons."

"Really?"

"Really. You'd think Imperial Stormtroopers had nothing better to do than run around stealing a maiden's virtue, after watching him for too long."

"He may wind up with a new villain du juor, once this war starts in earnest."

"Perhaps."

They each took a sip of tea.

"I noticed that you said 'most' of the girls love him," Drax remarked.

"Sharp ears. Almost as sharp as the horns."

"They have kept me alive. So have the horns."

"If your circles have been anything like mine, I don't doubt that at all. But yes, I said 'most'. We swore, Carlos and I, that the girls would never be used in any way without their consent. The key, there, being the word consent."

She paused and took a sip of tea.

"Katya?"

The droid rolled out with an inquisitive warble.

"Get on the com and tell Anna that I need her to come over, please."

The droid warbled assent and rolled off.

"Anna is our most experience masochist," Carlotta explained. "She can tell you what you need to know. Just... don't get to squicked out by what she says, okay?"

"I shall contain my revulsion at the thought that someone gets off on getting hit or worse."

"You're not into that lifestyle at all, are you?"

"Not in the least."

"I like you already, Commodore."

* * *

_3 Hours Later_

"That," Drax said as he and Carlotta stood in the foyer after seeing Anna out, "was the single most disturbing thing I have ever heard."

"You knew it existed."

"I know that supernova exist. I have never seen one, so I cannot fully understand what it means for a star to die. Experience has a greater impact than theory."

She touched his arm.

"Oh, yes. Did you learn what you needed?"

"I think- yes. I know how to read the information now. Or I think I know; either way I will make my best guess. This will make it a better guess than it would have been."

"Good. Good. I'll offer up prayers for you success, and for the GDF's."

He looked at her askance.

"_You_ pray?"

That didn't come out at all the way he meant. Fortunately, she did not take offense.

"I do. Tara and I meet for lunch every fourday. I do most of the talking, she does most of the sympathetic listening."

"Commodore d'Avignon? And I thought I was the only one." He paused, considering something. "A religious person who _listens_ to a 'heathen'. She is very rare, in that."

"Unfortunately, you're more right than some would like to believe. I could tell you stories... But she does it. I asked, once, if her god would mind if I prayed to him. She said he most certainly would _not_ mind, but would welcome it. So... yes. I pray. And now, I'll pray for you."

"You pray," he said quietly, and then shook his head. "I am an atheist Carlotta; there is no higher power to call on, just us and nature and chance. Even so... I appreciate it." He smiled, and then perverse curiosity got the better of him. "Does... does anything _hear_?"

"Sometimes? Probably not. Other times..." she trailed off and shrugged. Somehow that left him more unsettled than if she'd said yes or no. Again, perverse curiosity claimed him.

"What do you look for, in going after Tara's god?"

"Same thing Carlos showed you and me, Commodore."

"Trust?"

"Grace."

"I will not debate it," he said finally, after a long, silent moment. "Neither if there is any need for grace, nor if there is anyone to offer grace. Tara and I have done so many times, and all we have concluded is that we like the same beer."

She laughed.

"Probably a good place. We don't try to kill people we share beer with."

"This is true. However, the Vong, as far as I know, do not drink beer," he said with a dry smile. "Until they discover that wondrous use of grain..."

"You'll have to fight them. I guess you have an intelligence assessment to go over."

"I am afraid so."

"If you should ever find the time, Commodore, I would be glad to have you over again."

"For tea?"

"Maybe even beer. Purely pleasure, and hey," she batted her eyes coquettishly, "for senior officers, the first time is free."

"For tea, or beer, plus good conversation, I would be glad of it," he replied. "For the rest... I would be glad of that, to."

She turned a bit red, but grinned enough to show dimples. She held out her hand to him, he took it, and then raised it up to his lips. Then he released her.

"Good night, Carlotta."

"Good night, Commodore Drax."


	34. EightySix

It would surprise some to know that Carlos DeLong found equally distasteful both of the communiques loaded on his datapad. The first was the news about Jinx Katarn. They had not been 'friends', not precisely... but still at times comrades, sword-brothers in the old way. A pity that he could not go to the memorial himself, or even send a representative: the contents of the second communique forbade that.

He sipped his drink and leaned back in his desk chair, staring out the great window over looking the capital city. The worst part, he had to admit to himself, was not Jinx's death. Rather it was how the man had died. Janet and Mark both _had_ been his friends, and he'd known Les since before the boy could talk. He understood – perhaps as well as anyone could – the _nakama_ bond which had formed between Janet and Jinx. Such things tended to be stronger than the bonds between carbon atoms, or the bonds between quarks.

Or even the bonds of blood.

He shuddered at that conjuring and revised his earlier estimate: the communique from Coruscant was far, far more distasteful than the communique from Parliament. In fact -

The communications buzzer rang out, interrupting his train of thought. Carlos set down his drink and pressed the reply stud.

"Yes?"

"_Commodore Drax is here to see you, sir._"

_Already? It's only been three days since he visited the Red..._

"All right, Mal. Send him in."

"_Yes sir_."

Carlos set his drink down on his desk, then pushed the datapad a bit to one side and also tried to push Corsucant out of his mind. He was not entirely successful, until the door whooshed open and a bleary-eyed Drax walked mostly-erect into the room.

"Forget about that and just sit down, Commodore," Carlos said when Drax tried to draw to attention and salute. "You look terrible. When did you last sleep, anyway?"

"I am uncertain, sir," Drax said as he plopped down into a chair. "I believe I slept the day before I went to the Red, but much of that time is now a blur."

"Working that hard?"

"Bad mental images."

"Ah. Carlotta told you her story, then."

"Yes. I had believed that I had left that sort of... vile behavior... far behind when I came here. Then, when she called in the sub..." He shuddered, then closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose. "I will never, ever, truly understand that mindset."

They were quiet for a moment.

"If it makes you feel any better, I had the same reaction when Carlotta and I first set this whole thing up. It took a few weeks before I could get a good night's sleep."

"So you sent me there," Drax said opening his eyes, "knowing the entirety of what she would say?"

"Yes, I did. Because I'm not the one doing to the intelligence analysis and briefs anymore; you are. You needed to know about that mindset, the sort that enjoys pain, or else you can't understand this new enemy. So, I'm sorry if sending you there blew your mind and made you need brain-soap, but what I need to know is, were you able to use what you learned?"

_It could have been worse, commodore_, Carlos thought with certain amused sympathy. _I only sent you to the Red, and it's a lot easy to leave alive after a conversation with Carlotta, than it is to leave alive after I've sent you into combat._

Eventually Drax nodded.

"Yes, sir. I did. Is your pad set to receive?"

"Yes it is. How long?"

"Only a couple of seconds."

Carlos picked up his datapad and minimized the two prior communiques.

"Fire away."

Drax tapped a control on his datapad, and Carlos pressed on his, to acknowledge the file transfer. Two seconds later the report appeared on his screen, and he quickly scanned it. Then he pursed his lips and whistled.

"Eighty-six percent certainty?"

"Best we could do, even with the mindset data," Drax replied. "If we had word from the Garqi mission, I might be able to shore it up some more. But..."

"But it'll be awhile before they extract," Carlos said, quickly doing to the math. "And even longer before the data gets to Tag, and then from Tag to you. So. An eighty-six percent chance that this one raiding group – Delta, I believe – will strike the facilities at Aten-Re in the next three weeks."

"Specifically, within the next eighteen days. RG Delta has had the great misfortune of leaving a pattern."

"Really? Do you have a plot of-"

"Scroll down two pages, and-"

"Ah, found it." Carlos stared at the plot. Then he blinked, held the datapad at arm's length, and stared at it some more. Then he cocked his head sideways a bit.

"I recommend examining it while sleep deprived, and after a discussion on whips and chains," Drax offered helpfully.

"I'll take your word for it," Carlos said, and then he scrolled back up to the main analysis. "Were there any indications on the other three groups?"

"No, sir. None of the others operate according to any discernible pattern, not even the one which hit Xenen; we've confirmed the identity of that force. The only way to intercept them would be set pickets out all along the Shermach-"

"-which we don't have the legal authority for, much less the ship power. And if we can catch this one group-"

"Then whoever is coordinating these will have their combat power cut by one-quarter. Which is not much."

"But it's better than nothing."

"Agreed. So do we send this to the New Republic?"

"Send it to- oh, that's right. They haven't announced it yet."

"They have not announced what? And to which 'they' do you refer?"

Carlos grinned at him.

"Drax, you'll find out tonight on the six o'clock. But since I'm not evil," he added hastily, when Drax began glaring, "I'll forward you what Parliament sent me two hours ago."

He called up the second communique on his datapad, set the address, and hit the send control. Drax waited for the incoming message, clearly wondering why his CO didn't just _tell him_, and then tapped the receive control. He opened the message, and as he read it his eyes got big as dinner plates. When he was done, he looked up at Carlos.

"_Frak_," he whispered, almost in awe. Carlos nodded.

"The Speaker officially has enough votes for the resolution. As of the vote tonight," Carlos said quietly, "the GDF will be authorized to conduct offensive operations against the Yuuzhan Vong outside of the Golgan system, 'for the duration'."

"After ? I am not surprised."

"Nor am I. So. I am _not_ going to hand this data over to New Republic High Command. For one thing, they've got a lot on their plate right now, and little enough attention to spare. For another...well, like you said, ''. I think the boys want a bit of their own back."

Drax sat up straight, his eyes alight.

"What do you need from me, sir?"

"I need for you to get some sleep, friend," Carlos said gently. "You, frankly, look like hell, and I'll need you in one piece for tomorrow."

"Staff meeting?"

"0700. I haven't announced it yet. Visit Medical for a no-dream, if you have to, but I want you rested, Drax. We have an ambush to plan."

Carlos stood, signaling the end of the interview; Drax did likewise, though a bit unsteadily.

"Sleep, I believe, is one order which I will gladly follow," he said, and then saluted. Carlos returned the salute, and then Drax turned and headed for the door. Carlos waited until he had reached it.

"Oh, and Drax?"

"Sir?" Drax said, as the door whooshed open. Carlos smiled at him.

"Good work. _Very_ good work."

Drax returned the smile and nodded, slightly.

"Thank you, sir," Drax said, and left.

When the door closed, Carlos let out a great whoosh of breath and then turned back to the window. He stood there for a long time, watching the city. Everyone going about their business as if nothing had changed, unknowing that their world was about to get a bit red target painted on it.

_But we've had that target on us ever since that Vong fleet crossed heliopause and hit _, Carlos thought to himself. _Shoot, the galaxy as a whole has had a target sign painted on it since Belkadan and Helska. The declaration from Parliament, this possible ambush... those change nothing. Those are just concessions to this new reality._

He touched the window.

_This really is a beautiful world. But so long as the Yuuzhan Vong are in conquer mode, it's threatened. Which means that my duty is clear._

He walked way from the window, and pressed the call stud on his desk.

"_Sir?_"

"Mal, contact the senior staff; inform them there will be a strategy and tactics meeting at 0700 tomorrow."

"_Yes, sir_," his flag-lieutenant replied, and only the slightest tremor in her voice told him that she understood _why_ the subject was strategy and tactics.

"Once that is done, forward the same invite to Admiral Bridger, on Xenen."


	35. In Media Res

"I'm sorry. We can't come along on this one, Carlos."

Carlos raised an eyebrow; Robert had the grace to look a bit shame-faced, though he wondered if the holonet would faithfully transmit his expression.

"_You said you would, a week ago," _Carlos said. _"What changed?"_

"You on scrambler?"

"_Remember who you're talking to. I'm _always_ on scrambler."_

"Right. Skywalker called. Two days ago, Admiral Kre'fey extracted the intelligence team from Garqi – and don't worry, they're forwarding the report to Tag, and she'll forward it on to you and Drax. But the important thing is something they ran across by accident. The Pesktda Xenobotanical Garden on Garqi maintained a grove of Ithorian bafforr trees. During the mission, the intelligence team was chased into that grove by a small Vong force. Then bafforr trees started shedding pollen."

"_Were the Vong allergic," _Carlos interrupted, _"or was it their armor?"_

"The armor."

"_Oh, ow."_

"Yeah. Remember how you get whenever there's a cat around? Imagine something you're wearing doing that."

"_I said ow, remember? Were they able to conceal what happened?"_

"For a while. The strike team burned down the grove-" Robert and Carlos both winced at that "-and Corran _hopes_ that'll delay the Vong in figuring things out. But it won't be for long, and when they do..."

"_When they do, they'll hit Ithor,"_ Carlos said grimly, _"and they'll hit her _hard_. So. You and Tal both going?"_

"Yeah. Skywalker called for as many Jedi reinforcements as possible. If we can hold Ithor, and protect the bafforr trees... well."

"_Then we might be able to end this quickly," _Carlos whispered. _"Yeah, that's worth skipping out on trouncing a four-ship squadron. Go, the both of you, and do so with my blessings."_

At that, _Robert_ raised an eyebrow.

"So formal?"

Carlos moved his artificial hand in a somewhat ambiguous gesture.

"_It's just a feeling. I- This is a Force-thing for you, isn't it? That's why you're going, not just because of the strategic implications."_

Robert shrugged.

"Something like that, yeah." How could he explain to his brother the visions and dreams he'd had, even before Skywalker's call? He had only the barest of ideas as to what the sandcastles meant. But the direction of the Force was quite clear: the castles had stood before a grove of bafforr trees.

"_You need to be careful how you read those things. The Force gives you a vision of a place not to go, and you think it means _to_ go, then bad things happen."_

"That's why I'm going: so bad things can happen to the other guy."

Carlos huffed out a breath and shook his head.

"_Fine. I'll stop playing the old biddy, here. You and Tal just stay out of too much trouble, alright?"_

"Will do, as best able. Give 'em hell at Aten-Re."

"_That is the plan. May the Force be with you."_

It often surprised Robert just how much meaning could be found in those six words.

"And with you."

The two brothers each signed off from their respective holonet connections. Robert leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes, and let out a little sigh. Despite how much he _knew_ that he was meant to fight on Ithor, he really wanted to go with the – admittedly small, given the loss of Fifth Fleet – AF starfighter, troop, and Jedi forces Indy had detached. GDF Marines and pilots and were known quantities in battle, unlike whatever Skywalker and Admiral Kre'fey could scrape together for Ithor's defense. On the other hand, Kre'fey had a good reputation. And if Skywalker wasn't speaking in some weirdly metaphorical sense when he claimed that _Gilad Pellaeon_ would be there...

"So when do we leave?" came a voice from the door. Robert turned his chair and hopped out to face his oldest son.

"Your mother and I," he said evenly, "will be leaving for Ithor tomorrow, same as the force headed to Golgan III."

"Just the two of you?" Cam said. "We're coming to, Dad."

"Cam," Robert started, then he sighed and walked over to his son, and rested his hands on the boy's shoulders. He was somewhat surprised by how tall was his son; they could nearly look each other in the eyes. "I have to go. I couldn't stop your mother from coming even if I wanted to. But you don't. You're too-"

"Don't say 'too young'," Cam warned. "You know what happened when the Vong came here. You remember what we did. I can help you fight, Dad. All three of us can."

"Okay, see, that's one reason why you are staying here. Frankly, I'd be glad to have you back me up. If I can trust anybody, _anybody_, to watch my back, it's you and your mother." He paused a bit when Cam turned his head. He let the boy have some time to digest that, and then he continued. "But I am _not_ dragging Matt and Sarah into this. If you came they'd demand to come along as well, and between the three of you-" He stopped and smiled, though somewhat grimly. "Hell, the three of you and Jaq got into a PDC. I don't think I could stop them from joining you even if I had 'em tied up and locked behind a forcefield cluster." He shook his head. "Keeping you three ready to fight if the Vong come here is one thing. Dragging you to Ithor? Or sending you to Aten-Re? Into the teeth of a Vong attack or in the van of a prepared assault? That's another thing altogether, and I'm not about to put you in that danger just yet."

Cam looked about to argue, but instead he lowered his head.

"So that's final, then? You won't take us to Ithor?"

Robert touched his forehead to his son's.

"Yeah. That's final."

* * *

"I thought your dad said it was final," Jaq hissed as they crouched in the woods just outside the _Vendetta's_ hanger. Not for the first time did he question how he'd let Cam talk him into pulling this little stunt. Then he thought of the rest of their little party and remembered that Cam _hadn't_ talked him into it. _Sarah_ had.

Damned hormones. If his mother – or worse, _Aunt Indy_ – found out about this, then his goose was cooked. Chopped up. Fricasseed. Hard broiled. He didn't know exactly what they'd do, but he was sure it would be creative, evil, and not all worth the _beaming_ smile on Sarah's face when he'd agreed... oh.

Damned hormones.

"He said it was final that he wouldn't take us to Ithor," Cam said reasonably. "He _didn't_ say that we couldn't get there ourselves."

"Even if he meant that – which is highly unlikely – I don't think he meant for you to stow away on Ven!"

"Details!" Cam said with airy wave of his hand. Matt and Sarah nodded in agreement. "Let me worry about that. Can you get us in or not?"

Jaq sighed, took a look at Sarah's expectant expression, sighed again, and then reluctantly pulled out a datapad.

"Then easy part is getting you three into the hangar. That's a simple hack. The hard part is getting you into the ship. However, Ven is currently hooked into the Shay Memorial data network," he explained. "I can use that connection to access and modify her external sensors."

"Make them repeat a certain a view over and over again?" Matt asked.

"I didn't want to risk that, given all the activity on the landing fields." The AF was sending a company of assault troops, a heavy fighter squadron, and several Jedi to support the ambush at Aten-Re. "It was too likely that a random supply officer or crew chief could wander into her field of view at the wrong time. So instead I've, um, borrowed a HAPPY code which will modify her 178-182 sensor arc to not 'see' motion or biologicals. That only gives you four degrees of arc to maneuver undetected, but it should be enough if you move single file. Also, that gives you a clear line from the rear door of hanger to the external hatch on an unused cargo hold – and yes, I've made sure that she won't notice that, either. Once you're in, I'll send the command to remove the HAPPY code. The rest is up to you."

"Internal passive sensors?"

"Can't do much about those, Cam," Jaq shrugged. "I've done what I could, but if the sensors start to miss your mom and dad..."

"Then they'll either write it off a glitch or they'll find us," Cam said. "So long as they find us after it's too late to turn around, I can live with that."

Jaq sighed. He'd hoped that the internal sensors would come up, and that those sensors would dissuade his friends. But they were committed. So he might as well go along with it.

"Question," Sarah whispered.

"Go."

"What if someone walks into the hangar after you've uploaded the HAPPY code, walks behind Ven, and she notices that he disappears?"

"That's why I _also_ hacked into the hangar's surveillance system. You don't go in until the HAPPY code takes affect, and I don't load the HAPPY code until I'm sure the hangar is clear."

She seemed impressed at his foresight. Jaq grinned at her, and tried very had not to notice as Cam rolled his eyes.

"Well?" Matt hissed. "What are waiting for?"

Cam looked at Jaq, and Jaq shrugged.

"Personally, I'm waiting on the three of you."

Cam nodded.

"Right then, let's move out."

For some reason, Jaq took point. Matt and Sarah followed behind him, while covered the rear. Each DeLong brought with them a pack with a few days worth of rations and field sanitation processors. Jaq made sure that the all of two meters to the rear door were clear, and then perhaps a bit over-dramatically led the teenaged line out of the woods and to the door. They pressed up against the wall, two on each side of the door, and Jaq pulled out his datapad and checked the internal surveillance feed.

No one was there, except for the ship.

"It's clear," he whispered to Cam. "Last chance to pull out."

Cam shook his head.

"We're going. That's all there is to it."

Jaq closed his eyes, then sent the HAPPY code. Since hellfire and damnation did not immediately descend upon him, he opened his eyes and check Ven's status.

"Okay, the code's in. Get moving."

He opened the door. Matt went in first. Sarah started for the door, but then she stopped, went back to Jaq, threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. His eyes went wide, he felt his face heat up and and lot things which he couldn't quite describe but really enjoyed went rampaging about inside his chest. He realized that he'd gone somewhat slack-jawed at about the time Sarah pulled aside and looked at him, her eyes twinkling with amusement.

"Thanks!" said brightly, and then she let him go and ran into the hanger. Jaq, still in a very pleasantly-shocked haze, finally noticed Cam staring at him. He and his best friend looked at each other across the open door.

"If you hurt her," Cam said finally, "I swear on all we consider holy that I _will_ kick your ass."

Jack grinned, figuring that was as close to an approval as he would get.

"Then I'll just have to be sure not to."

They clasped arms across the open door and then embraced.

"May the Force be with you, Cam," Jaq said.

"And with you, Jaq. Want to come with us?"

They separated.

"Can't. Somebody's got to hold down the fort around here. Just... don't do anything more stupid than we've already done, alright?"

Cam grinned. Jaq grinned back, not a bit weakly, and then Cam turned and made for the cargo hatch. Jaq watched to make sure that all three were safely aboard, then he closed the hangar door and stepped away. Absently, he reached up and touched his cheek.

Then he grinned, switched off the datapad, and happily made his way back home.


End file.
